A Boy and His Calf

This one lucky shot has had me watching the skies at dawn, sent me back on a four-mile jog again and again, trying to replicate it. I have so far failed. One of the funny things about this photo is that while I was composing it, the Great Pyrenees who guards this farm spotted me, and began to bark. I get barked at a lot, since you very rarely see a person out walking or running on these roads, and as a result I am an object of much discourse among the dogs. Being barked at makes me nervous, so I began counting her thunderous borfs. One hundred forty-seven, until I was out of earshot. 

This visit was in the afternoon, and the light was completely different. I took another shot, and saw Rusty and his son Riley out and about. Luckily, Stella hadn't spotted me.

As I rounded the curve I grinned to see the UPS truck pull up. I began humming, "Wells Fargo Wagon" from The Music Man. The driver backed into the driveway, hopped out and instead of delivering a box, he popped the hood of the truck and asked Rusty to take a look at it. It was such a homey scene. Rusty's mighty handy with engines.





The driver had pulled away by the time I got there, and Rusty told me they'd gone to high school together. We got to talking. His boy Riley shyly asked me if I'd like to meet his fair calf, Tucker. "I would LOVE to meet Tucker! I thought you'd never ask!" I answered. Rusty and Missy laughed and off Riley and I went to the barn. First though, I asked if I might meet Stella, the Great Pyrenees I'd admired from afar. I thought maybe if she knew my voice I could calm her jets going forward.

 
She wasn't so sure about me. I looked a little sketchy in her opinion. GP's are superb guard dogs, always on alert and very barky.

 

She took a big whiff of my scent and checked me out thoroughly with startlingly beautiful bright nut-brown eyes.

 

I must've checked out all right, because her trepidation turned to unbridled joy. Wow! What an unexpected boost, to have a gigantic guard dog make a snap decision that you're not just OK, but fabulous!!

 
You haven't been smiled at until you've been smiled at by Stella.
 What a doll! What a good girl! I wanted to roll around on the ground with her, but there was a calf to meet.


 Riley slipped a rope halter over Tucker's head and led him up to the gate. It was best I stay behind it.



He put his little manatee snoot through the wire to check me out.

 

It was clear this little steer had been very well treated.
No fear there.

I began asking Riley questions about what it takes to prepare a calf for the county fair competition, and was so captivated by his pride in the little beef that I knew I had to make a video.

We were in the barn so long that Rusty came out to see what might be going on. Just talking cattle, that's all, happy as clams.

Riley and I talked about the elephant in the barn: the fact that, this coming Saturday, he would show Tucker at the Barlow Fair, and that would surely result in his sale.  In the video, Riley says he hopes someone will buy him so they can show him next year. But he knows deep down that's unlikely.

I like to get the whole story, and that takes time: that's why I cook these blogposts for so long. I would have been at the Barlow Fair with bells on, watching and shooting as Riley showed this beautiful onyx block of a calf, but Parents' Weekend at WVU beckoned, and I had to go see my boy. I came back refreshed and happy from spending a couple of days with sweet Liam, and I wondered how Riley and Tucker had fared in Barlow.

There were a few ways to find out, but I lucked into the best. I trotted back out the ridge the next time we had a sunrise, and lo and behold if I didn't find Riley's grampa Dale out sweeping his driveway. I'd never really had a conversation with him; just waved at him and his lovely wife as the kids and I would ride by on our bikes, grinning like fools and deliriously happy that we'd finally made it up Campbell Run's grueling hill to the ridgetop where Riley's grandparents live, just a half-mile from the beautiful farm.



We talked about many, many things. Cattle and weather and life on the ridge; responsibility and crime and fidelity and marriage and changing times. It was really cool. My favorite thing Dale said was when he talked about Riley and his big sister McKenzie. "They're my lights, my bright spots. They really are."

I felt so lucky to hear that, so lucky to have heard Riley talk about raising his calf.  Lucky to be able to share it with you.

 This is my Fitbit's hi-tech witnessing of the run I did that day. There's a green spike, which means a lot of footsteps, and then some red and yellow lines.  Green: Fitbit approves. Red and yellow: Caution. You're not getting enough steps in! Well, pooh. Those red and yellow lines are me taking photos of mushrooms in people's yards. Ha ha!!

 Now:  See that hour and twenty-minute hole in the middle of all the green activity? That's me, finding out how Riley did at the Barlow Fair. Ha ha ha!! I like the way I fidget a bit at the start  (tiny red lines); settle in for the long yak (flatlining); and then fidget a lot (more red lines) before I take off for home. Dale kept apologizing for "taking a bite out of my day." Perish the thought!




 I loved every minute of our chat, which became a conversation, which became another treasured connection. Long story short: Tucker brought the third-highest price of any calf sold: $2100. Now, that has to be amortized for the feed and equipment that is purchased for readying such a calf for show. And that's darned expensive. But still. I wouldn't have known what a check for $2100 looks like at Riley's age.  That's a powerful lesson in work, preparation and reward right there.

Dale said that Tucker acted up quite a bit on the way out of the ring, and it was clear to me that the calf was right at the point where he was getting too big and strong and opinionated for Riley to handle. A fractious 600-pound Angus calf tossing his head around is a battering ram with a big bony sledgehammer at one end. I pushed away thoughts about why Tucker might have acted up, and thought of Riley, saying goodbye to a calf he'd cared for every day for the last six months.

If 4H teaches a child anything, it's that he* must let go.  He must push away thoughts. He must put all that love and care into an animal and then, when the time comes, walk away. It's a relationship he enters willingly, knowing all along that it's going to end. Knowing that this calf who loves treats and eats shirts and likes to have his soft brisket rubbed is destined, in a few too-short months, for the human food chain. He's not a dog, not a horse. He's a steer. And steers don't get to hang around. A few lucky bulls do (witness Buck the Bull), but it takes only one bull to service a herd. So all the males get cut and sold for beef. A lucky few of those get the deluxe treatment, the relationship with a human that enriches both their lives. In cattle terms, Tucker was a lucky steer, if a steer can be lucky.

*of course girls participate in 4H; I just don't want to clutter up the wording with (s)he. 

The rest of the herd (in part). Lone bull to upper left. Big cow getting up. I felt bad about that. I try not to make them get up.

I never talk with a 4H-er without picturing myself in their boots. I chuckle just thinking about it. I, who as a kid wept torrents and held funerals for every fishie that went belly-up in my 5-gallon aquarium.  I, who, grown up but no better at letting go, stared fixedly out the window for seven months while I recorded every move a hand-raised blue jay made. Who still watches for her, every day.  If there is anything I am horrible at, it's letting go when I should.

And yet as I look back on 2017, the lesson the Universe kept hurling at me was: Let Go or Be Dragged. From my beautiful kids, who were bound to leave and make their own way no matter how good the food, loving the mama, or soft the bed; to my sweet Chet Baker, who had to leave too soon; to Jemima, who went when she got the call; to my husband, who finally made the long-awaited move away just over a year ago. 2017 was all about letting them go. All of them. And I have come out of it, and I'm looking back on it all now, and I never thought I'd be able to say that. And not only am I still alive, but I'm actually feeling happy again. I knew that I would be, eventually, but it's still such a nice surprise to be level. I get out of bed in the pitch-dark morning thinking, "Well, what am I going to paint today? Where will I run? Will there be a sunrise?"


 

And the answer is: Sometimes. Get dressed and be ready for it. Get out and savor it when it happens.

  

After the enduring connection with my family and friends, it's the savoring, the land and the sky, the flowers and the birds and the insects and animals and clouds that keep me going. 



 

That, and the light.

The lights.







Riley's going to raise a heifer next year. That way, when he falls in love with her, he gets to keep her, watch her raise her own calves.


For more on cattle:

Buck the Bull

My NPR commentary on Buck's greatest moment

Labrador Morning

It was such a beautiful morning. Cold, but every morning has been cold.

I’m used to cold. 23 degrees meant four layers, gloves, headband. Everything able to be zipped down or shed should the sun and the heat of running require it. I was really happy because my tiny Swarovski binoculars were finally back from repair. I’m so tough on binoculars. The bridge hinge was broken again, and they were badly out of alignment, too. That's what hundreds of miles of shaking will do. But this morning they were back and good as new. I saw a little head poking out of the grass on a high bank and with the binocs it resolved to an Eastern meadowlark. I reveled in the view, after so many runs without binoculars. Next up was a singing field sparrow, then three more meadowlarks and a displaying red-winged blackbird. I was so happy to see my friends up close again.

I saw some pineapple tops in the cow pasture and knew that the Harrises were tossing them out as treats for their Herefords. I smiled. I've seen pumpkins and apples in the same spot. I've fed pears to them here, too. 

I went to see one of my shadow barns, and I thought as I walked up how nice it would be to see Chet Baker’s little shadow on that warm red wood. All right, I couldn’t see him any more, but what if his shadow were to appear?

 

I could feel him near. Oh, how I miss seeing him, touching him. I’d have to settle for knowing his spirit was near. That’s something, but today it wasn’t enough. I heaved a big sigh. It was OK to miss him, but yearning wasn't something I could afford to indulge.

 

 I was going to stay happy this morning. I had my binoculars and somewhere to go. And nothing hurts when I run.  When you're my age, that's cause for celebration!

I was looking as I trotted along at the tufts of cow hair on the barbed wire to my right, thinking that if I could find one backlit, it’d be worth a shot. I caught a large dark shape out of the corner of my eye. It was a dog, a young Lab, and when I caught its eye it put its ears back and smiled. When I spoke to it, it tucked its tail and ran a little ways away.  "If you don't want me near you, I'll leave." Not afraid, just polite. So I averted my eyes, turned away and sat down on the side of the road, presenting the smallest profile I could. Soon enough it crept up and gingerly but neatly slipped under the barbed wire to come closer to me. As I watched, I thought, “This dog knows its way around barbed wire. This is a country dog. It's done this before."

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Once it decided I was no threat, the dog held its tail high and moved with confidence. Soon I was stroking it and rubbing its sides. I had thought it was a male from its high- carried tail and commanding presence, but a quick check showed it to be a female. Hmm. What an interesting dog. She seemed very happy to see me, a bit hungry, but by no means frantic or questing. Still, I was concerned. She wore a faded pink collar that had probably started out red. Her rabies tag was broken in half—no help in identifying her. I shook my head. You have a dog that can run for miles, and you don't put a viable ID tag on her collar? That’s what collars and tags are FOR. Then I laughed at myself. I'm one to talk. Until he lost his hearing, Chet never even wore a collar. But then he never went anywhere without me, either.

 The only other clue on the collar was a transponder, probably for an invisible fence. Data into the Situational Awareness processor.  It suggested to me that her escape was a jailbreak, that she was well-enough cared for to be kept inside a pricey electronic fence. Her glossy coat and shining eyes spoke of good food and good care. Her kindness and manners said that she'd been treated with love. She was not a dropoff, I decided, though Lord knows this is the kind of place people drop off unwanted animals. I’d just live-trapped a tomcat last week, clearly deposited in my turnaround to help reduce the avian population at that hippie lady’s bird sanctuary.

 

I was still gathering data. I sniffed her ruff. It smelled of stale winter house interior. This wasn’t a hunting dog; she was a house pet who had been let out just this morning. She wasn’t far from home. Her home-smell still clung to her.  For her part, she was gathering information on me. She knew I hadn’t had breakfast yet, either. I smelled of fresh air. She knew I was a ways from my home.

 I looked at her and decided I’d do whatever it took to reunite her with her owners.  It didn't matter how long it took. But first, she’d have to come along on my run. I knew without even asking that she would take me up on the offer. She'd already decided, too. At this point there was a great deal of nonverbal communication flying between us. It was electrifying. I hadn’t had a chance to speak dog for ever so long. To look, to sniff, to deduce, to exchange thought pictures. Dogs can get us in touch with that which is essential within us: Our senses, quite apart from our thoughts.

 

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 As I'd guessed, she was only too happy to come along. Her tail waved like a flag as she rocketed along dozens to hundreds of yards in front. We had forged an instant human/canine contract, an agreement to stay loosely together this beautiful morning. I'd keep her safe, and she'd keep me company.

I aimed to get off the county road as soon as possible, to turn down the dirt road.

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It was truly extraordinary to see a black inkblot on the landscape in front of me again.

To aim my camera at it and fire away.

 

I needed to call her something. "Roma" popped into my head, because she was roaming, for sure.  Roma she'd be, for the duration of our run.

 

Just like Chet used to, she'd stop periodically to look back and check on me, and then she'd double back. Three times she snuck up on me from behind, having made a huge circle around me. Each time she surprised me, I laughed. What a fun, interesting companion.

I called her, to see what would happen. Heah, Roma!!

 

She came back for all the world as if Roma were her name.

 

There was such a connection between us, it was as if I'd known her before. I had to wonder who had sent this wonderful dog to me this fine, fine morning. 

I wanted one thing, and that was to sit on a sunny hillside, where I used to sit with Chet, and gaze down into the valley below.

Roma thought that was an excellent plan. She was so excited to be out and about that she made about twenty circles around me as I sat and emptied my mind.

She had a prey drive that would do a cheetah proud. She dug, rooted, sniffed, watched. This dog was going to go away knowing something. It was awe-inspiring, and a bit unsettling. I'd become used to Chet, who in his later years kept mostly to the road or trail, and was happy to let most animals pass on by with just a word of caution from me. At one point on our run she spotted two distant deer I'd been praying she wouldn't see, and she bounded down the road to give chase. Ye gods, the eyesight and hearing on this animal! A sharp shout from me, and she stopped and stood to watch them run. Good dog. That told me she'd had some training. She was listening, even as she orbited. What a good girl.

And then, glory be, she flopped down to join me, rolled in the grass, and relaxed for a moment. That was all I'd ever wanted: just to be in the company of a dog again. To look at the landscape over the head of a good dog.

 

 She was the most interesting color. Not black, but deep seal-brown, like someone I loved so dearly. A seal-brown angel.

 

I'm so happy to meet you, Roma. Wherever you're from, whatever it takes, we'll get you home. Until then you and I are friends. Friends for a glorious hour or two.  

  

There was a perfection about her I couldn't take my eyes off. A lot of dog, with a lot of potential, and brains, too. Not camera-shy, as so many dogs are. Willing to be looked at and photographed.

 

 

Not dopey in the least. Not overbearing or obnoxious. Noble. Nobility is hard to find in dogs these days. So few people seem to be willing to work with their dogs to bring it out. This dog clearly came equipped with it, and had had some training. She had dignity.

Her light lemon eyes look a little crazy, but they're not. They reminded me of a lion's eyes.

  

Also a good dry-kisser. She planted a couple on my cheek. Yep, Roma had it all.

 

On our way back, she checked out the Toothless Lady. Oh, the memories. Chet used to walk a little gangplank into that collapsing barn. He drove me nuts. I'd writhe until he re-emerged from the rubble, so afraid he'd drop through what was left of the floor. Once he even went up into the haymow!! Arrrgh!! I watched helplessly as he climbed the stairs, could hear his footsteps up there, with me down below, afraid he'd run into a nest of coons or squirrels and lose his head. Terrible. Finally he came back down the rickety stairs with a look that said, "You worry too much."

Roma promised not to scare me like that. This dog has sense. Chet did too. He was just overconfident. A highwire walker.

Roma's Lab came out full bore when she found a ditch full of ice-coated water. It couldn't have been 25 degrees, but that dog broke the ice with playful slaps of her paws and LAY DOWN in the water!!

Oh how I laughed!

She was so cute I had to make some videos.

               

 See what I mean about her carriage? She's got presence.

Imagine loving to be in water so much that you lie down in it on a subfreezing morning.  I love the redwings singing in the background of this next video.




              




I knew our two-hour idyll had to end soon. As we neared home my mind was working through lots of scenarios. I'd stop at the most likely place and ask. If Roma wasn't theirs, I'd take her on home and call the dog warden. I'd offer to keep her until someone came forward. I knew someone was missing this wonderful dog already.

I stopped at the driveway to the house where I thought she lived and watched her carefully. She trotted up the driveway, betraying little anticipation. My neighbor came out on her porch saying, "You found my buddy!" A flood of relief washed over me. Thank goodness!

Roma turned to me and smiled and wagged. Their other dog, Dozer, who I knew from years of running past him, put his paws in my hands and looked up at me. I was so happy to have guessed right about where she belonged. Their owner explained to me that Roma had recently taken to roaming, willing to take the shock from her collar for the adventure that followed beyond.

I'd be that dog.

A new collar "for stubborn dogs" was on order. It would have a 9-volt battery. I winced inwardly, but kept my reaction in check. Not mine to judge. Everyone has a different way with their dog. I'd been lucky to live 2/3 mile off the dangerous county road. And Chet was nobody's wanderer. He wanted to go wherever I went, period. If Mether was home, so was Chet, and that was that. He wouldn't even go out the driveway to get the mail with someone else if I wasn't along. Roma, on the other hand, is built to run all day. She lives right on a dip in the main county road, and people regularly hit 65 mph going down that hill. Her owners don't want her wandering at quitting time when everybody's rocketing back from town to their home in the hills, too many with a Bud Light already in hand. I get it.

Now came the moment I'd been waiting for. "What is her name?"

"Remy."

I gasped. Could I have come much closer, with my made-up name? No wonder she came when I called her! There's something going on here. My little voice had been listening hard, knowing things.

 

Ah, Remy. What joy you brought me, just being your loose, wild, untamed, jail-busting self. A dog with no use for obedience training, for leashes or collars. A dog who is no annex of any human, a dog who is nothing but herself. This dog runs and hunts and digs and splashes and savors every inch of the landscape, 100% alive, 100% animal, 100% grateful to be outside on her own.

But on this morning, she chose to be with me.

Remy, whoever sent you to me, whatever spirit moved you to follow me down and give me a hit of your grace and humor and beauty, I thank most humbly.

 

Perhaps we'll run again someday.

Back at It

A collapsed field sparrow nest from 2017 along the driveway. Japanese honeysuckle, already leafing out. Spring is coming, I think. The daffodils are in suspended animation, leaning into the biting wind.

I raised the blind yesterday on two inches of fresh snow. No matter how many times this happens, I am still surprised. Oh! Snow!

Not as surprised as they are in the Boston area I'm sure. An Ohio March snowstorm is a joke compared to what the North Atlantic can hurl at the New England coast.  I feel for them. So much.

I surprised myself a second time by lacing on running shoes instead of Keen boots, and heading out for a run. You would think that, having not run since oh, August 2017, I might have trouble. The only trouble I had was working up to doing it, getting my mind ready to run. The actual doing is no big deal. I don't have to stop; I don't get terribly winded on the hills; I just chug along. I really expected to be a wreck, but I wasn't. When I think about the first time I ever ran, I stopped eight times in the first mile! Most of it is pacing myself. I didn't know then that it wasn't a sprint; it was a jog. Or maybe it's because I've been hiking most every day since I stopped running. I don't know. I'm just grateful I can still run.

 

Is this thing working? Can't tell... Typical Zick selfie. They're rare, because I usually look like a possum in them. Headband is pure alpaca--best ear warmer I've ever owned. Hair, styled and colored by Old Man Winter and Father Time. I'm kinda digging the steel coming in. I'm going with steely.

All I know is I've got to keep moving. Running gets the blood going to my brain like nothing else. My brain gets ideas when it's got enough oxygen. It gets inspiration. Best of all, it stops feeling sorry for itself.

Because I needed a lesson in gratitude this day, I brushed the snow off the Congletons' stone. I read it whenever I'm tempted to feel sorry for myself. I think of Thomas, oly 25. And I think of Ida B., born one day after Phoebe, albeit 119 years earlier, and gone by the time she was six months old. Just when she was getting really fun to hold and play with. If ever there were a great name for a baby, it's Ida B. I imagine her parents calling her that. Ida B what are you doing?

OUR LOVED ONES AWAIT US. Oh Osborn and Adaline, if you only knew how that simple line tears my heart up.  If you only knew how reading your stone and musing on your too-short lives can realign my thinking, again and again, more than a century later. For what it's worth.

 

 And there are the Long girls, who I'm assuming must have died very young, for the way they're all ganged on the same stone. Jane, Emma, Delia and Ora Lee. Such beautiful names for those babies. Oh, the tears shed over that little tablet.

 

And this one haunts me, because nobody knows who lies there. I think it's probably Civil War era. There are a bunch of these, all in one part of the cemetery toward the back. I honor you, whomever you may be.

I ran to this cemetery nearly every morning for four years at least. I always found something interesting, inspiring, sad, intriguing or wondrous here. I still do. I wish I could still meet my friend Clarence here, and hear his stories of life on an Ohio farm, of fighting in Viet Nam. Oh, the stories he tells. But he quit driving school buses years ago.

So I stop and look at what the snow did to Father overnight.

And Mother.

This post is me, telling y'all to get outside. If you can walk, hike, run, you should be getting out and doing something every single day. Mobility's a gift, and you don't truly realize that until it's taken away. Humans were not built to sit all day! We stand. Walk. Run. Stoop. Squat. Crawl. Nothing physical really happened to me to make me stop running. I just lost the heart to do it. I missed my little black inkblot. Things happened. Well, things happen to everyone.

 My challenge now, taking it up again, is not to do too much, too soon. That's how you hurt yourself. Keeping it under 3 miles to start, and I'm going to make myself take a couple rest days each week, too. Riiight. No, I will. Wiser than I used to be. The stakes are higher.

 

I'll leave you with this little barn and its artful tic-tac-toe junkpile, which never looks better than in a new snow. I think that cool dark crimson might be the perfect color for a building. It seems always to complement the sky, whether it's cerulean or Payne's gray. If the new neighbors mind my walking up their unmarked driveway to take these photos, they haven't let on. People around here just have to put up with me, my relentless pursuit of beauty, and my utter disregard for property lines. Somehow, it works. Probably because I wave and say a few kind words as I go by. Being kind is a passport you carry.

The beauty here is so sharp it sometimes sears me. It's good to start your day that way, blinded by grace.