Tuesday, March 12, 2024

Pay Day


This is what I posted on Facebook on Wednesday last week during the charmingly mandatory lunch hour at Balog Auction - notice the fantastic country-fried steak and mashed potatoes and corn, blanketed in velvety white gravy:

"The steers arrived in Lethbridge last night during less than optimal driving conditions (thank you Kody, Marvin, Cliff, and Kurt who helped with loading!).

I had it slightly better and had a wonderful sleep (thank you, Balog Auction!)

And now it's almost here. This is what the Good Rancher has poured his time, energy, thought and resources into for the entire year. This is the result of no holidays, late nights and early mornings, falling asleep on the couch after 9 pm suppers, missing church and family occasions due to bad weather.

The GR regards his cow-calf operation as God's outfit, and he is just a steward.

He pays attention to the verse in Corinthians that states what is required of a steward is that he is found faithful.

The GR has been faithful to his calling.

Dear Lord, let it be a good sale ..."

*************************************

On the front of the GR's cattle liner

Due to adverse weather conditions the GR's cattle arrived later than we had hoped last Tuesday evening. The snow storm that blew up from nowhere continued to plague our wonderful drivers going home - at least one arrived back at 1 am, to a wife who had been praying for his safety. Another one, I found out later, got home at 2:00.

The thing about auction houses is that the animals usually go up for auction in the order in which they arrive. So I was prepared for a long wait on Wednesday afternoon, and for getting to the bank after it had closed. Oh well, I thought to myself.

**********

Mr. Balog himself ("Mr. Balog was my dad; call me Bob") opens the afternoon auction with the words, "Where's Mark?" Mark is also an extraordinary auctioneer, so if we have both Bob and Mark in the house, it should be a good sale.

Then Bob lays out the the first five in the sale order: there are three ranches from Saskatchewan, one from fairly close by, and the fifth one is the GR!

Mark takes the microphone and it begins. The steers and heifers look big and healthy and the bidding is fast and fierce. Prices are good. As a side note, animals are grouped by weight and often by colour, and the price being bid on is the price per pound. So if you look at line three you see that 13 black steers were in the ring; the average weight of each was 678 lbs; and the per-pound price settled on through the bidding process was "three-ninety-one-and-a-quarTÈRE," as Bob might say. 

(That's three dollars and 91 1/4 cents per pound, to be clear. And that's a really good price! I just want you to know that it's not the producers who are bumping beef prices in the stores ...🤪)

I usually sit on the top row of the gallery; but today the heat is cranked so high in retaliation for the outside frigid temperatures that I know I won't be able to take it for long. I slip into a chair on the back row at the side of the ring, and meet the Thorstensons from Saskatchewan. They are second on the roster. Big, beautiful, strong steers and healthy heifers. Bob himself takes the auction chair for them. There is quite a lot of jollity about James, a new MLA in Saskatchewan and their son. ("I knew Bob would say something!" beams Mrs. T.) They've been coming to Balog's since 2007, she tells me. "Bob always gets it done for us."

Georgine Westgard is sitting with the Thorstensons and they are clearly old pals. Jim and Georgine retired from farming in the Oyen area in 2018. Bob, of course, did the herd dispersal and then the farm auction sale. She is here for a visit today, and she includes me in the conversation. She roots for the Thorstensons throughout their sale; and when it comes time for the GR's cattle to enter the ring, she roots for him just as hard. "You have nothing to worry about - they look GREAT! Such good shape! Don't worry about the buyers pulling out one or two! Sometimes it's legit but sometimes they just want to keep people on their toes."


M
ark takes over when it comes time to auction off the GR's herd. He has a pitch and rhythm that lulls you unless you're a buyer; then you better be paying close attention! He fights for quarter of a cent per pound, as does Bob - who, even as Mark auctions, is adding the colour commentary: "One iron! No implants or steroids! Home raised!" And the price goes up a quarter of a cent. Every quarter penny counts! 


I ask Georgine why she thought two steers are pulled out of a pack to be auctioned separately. "I'll go ask the buyer!" she declares. It seems they look "a little soggy." Sounds legit to me. Slightly lower price the second time around. I would choose crispy over soggy too; wouldn't you?

The GR's charolais-cross steers show up in the ring and they take my breath. A ring full of goldenness. I say to the two ladies, "When I see how gorgeous these steers are, I feel guilty for ever having evil thoughts about the GR not going on holiday or us not doing more as a couple ..."

They laugh knowingly. "We all feel that way. Don't feel bad. But it's a good day today, isn't it?!"

Suddenly, Georgine lets out a little yelp. A steer is down. The other steers run out of the ring through the exit door, and still he sits. 

The room falls silent.


I can hardly breathe.

The ring men move in to try to get him up, but Mister Balog takes control. "WAIT. Everybody wait. Give him a minute. Give him another minute ..."

And wouldn't you know it, that little steer gets himself up and walks out of his own volition. No limping. No foaming at the mouth. No hesitation. Completely calm.

Bob was standing right beside me by this point. "Just winded," he reassures me. "He'll be okay. We'll claim him on insurance so you don't have to worry. He'll be fine."

Bob Balog cares, not only about the animals but also about their people.

A small group of mixed colours arrives in the ring. The GR calls them "funny colours." I call them "Joseph's coat." They are so beautiful to me.



They sell just as well as everyone else. Take THAT, GR! 💖  

Across the ring from me are four people very dear to the GR's heart:  Justin, Kryston, Clay, and Oaklee, with whom the GR is completely smitten and calls Annie Oakley. The next generation in the family teaching their next generation the ins and outs of ranching life while they figure it out for themselves.

Kryston gives me a recipe for homemade yoghurt - easy and saves money. I have rarely seen someone so industrious. Oaklee has her mama's dimple at the corner of her mouth. Clay wants to be a rancher just like his dad. 

Justin bids for and buys some of the GR's steers. He has set up his own feedlot and is starting to build his herd. 


When the GR's sale is over, I deke into the kitchen to retrieve the doughnuts I had picked up from the Prairie Cottage Bake Shop in Brooks, on my way to Lethbridge, just as they were closing on Tuesday. This bakery makes doughnuts the old-fashioned way, and they taste the way most donut people dream of doughnuts tasting nowadays. I had called the bakeshop as I was preparing to leave for Lethbridge to see if I could reserve five or six dozen. 

The owner herself answered the phone. "I have a few left but nowhere near what you need ... Wait a minute - we're pretty caught up here. I could make up a small batch just for you!"

I arrived at 4:30. The doughnuts were done. "We just have to box them. You'll have to leave the boxes open so that they can cool!" I listened to the sweet sounds of a cappella hymns in the background as the two ladies finished up the order. 

After the GR's cattle are sold, doughnuts are passed around to everyone in the house who wants one, and every morsel is appreciated. "What's the occasion?" I am asked several times.

"The GR and I just made it to our tenth anniversary. Many people were pretty sure we wouldn't make it to five! So we wanted to celebrate with the folks who understand this way of life. Our people."

"Happy anniversary. Good sale."

(Prairie Cottage Bake Shop
Brooks, Alberta
403-501-0111
Just saying, in case you find yourself in Brooks!)


I go to the office to get the cheque and paperwork. As always, here is Maureen, Bob's sister and the person who runs the administration of this place. How she keeps everything straight, especially on sale day, I do not know.


How she keeps the song in her heart, I do know. There next to her is her daughter Shandi, back from maternity leave. "She's all I have," Maureen had told me quietly, numbly, when Shandi encountered difficulties in labour and delivery last year.

Now Shandi's beautiful boy is being cared for by his other grandma for the two days a week that Shandi works next to her mom like she always has. And Maureen's heart circle has expanded. 

I write my thankyou cards to the buyers who have purchased the GR's cattle. We are so grateful to them all and pray that the steers will thrive under them and that many people will be nourished through their efforts.

Goodbyes said, I make my way to the truck, start the engine to warm things up, and punch up the number on my phone.

He answers immediately.

"It's done. 

How much were you hoping to get from this sale?"

I say the exact same thing every time I go to a sale. I fear that he might think I'm crazy for asking, because what's done is done. But I fear even more that he might be disappointed, that despite all his hard work we have come up short.

He gives me his number. "Are we even close?"

I flash back to all the times we have gone through this, the times we have not met his number. How he immediately reassures me, despite his own disappointment, that all will be well. That God will take care of us.

I look down at the breakdown of the sale given to me from the auction house. I take a deep breath.

"Honey, we are not close. 

Honey, you remember the verse in Ephesians about '... Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think'? 

Honey. That's where we are ..."

Silence.

Even from four hours away I can feel the weight of the past two years start to roll off his shoulders. I hear him draw in a deep breath and slowly exhale.

"Thank You, dear God," he whispers into the phone.

"AND I can get to the bank in time before it closes! I had better leave now, though ..." I blink my way down town and pull myself together as I enter the bank's parking lot on my second attempt.

I go into the bank and - happy day! - there is not a line up, AND they are debuting a new BMO commercial. There is something about this guy that I just love. I think it's his inherent tongue-in-cheek joyfulness. I am so fortunate to get called to the teller's station where you sit down to do your banking, so I get to watch it a couple of times. 


The bank teller thinks this is hilarious. She's laughing harder than I am. Only, she's not laughing at the commercial ... 


I drive home. As I go through Taber I stop at Taco Time and get two taco salads and a burrito, to go. Beef, of course. And the large Mexifries, please.  After all, it's a very special occasion!

I battle through some fog and blowing snow, but nothing like the day before. As I pull into the driveway I see a text from the GR that he had sent at 5:30.


I just have to park on the driveway for a moment to gather my thoughts. Our calving season is supposed to start the last half of April! This calf is not premature. The mother is a cow, not a first calver. Seriously? The whole cycle has started again IMMEDIATELY without even a day's reprieve?! 

"Will you take me to them?" I ask the GR.


"What are you going to name her?" he asks me.

"There really is only one name for her." I reply. 

"PayDay!"

Monday, February 12, 2024

Writing in the Dark of the Year - The Final Session

This, the last week in the course, the prompt was: "Every angel is terrible ..." (Rainer Maria Rilke).

This is what came into my head:

------------------------------------

O Lucifer, star of the morning,
Have we all been tarred with
your gorgeous, careless brush?

You, the one who enjoyed fellowship
with the Almighty!
You let it go to your head, did you -
as a result you hurtled,
the most magnificent peacock,
sapphire and emerald
and onyx and gold feathers
Tumbling 
from the heavens
Cascading 
through the firmament
To land in the mysterious murkiness called
"In the beginning."

Your metamorphosis into 
the loveliest of serpents
in the garden 
made us who watched
from above
regard you with fear and awe.
Michael, Gabriel trying to fill your sandals
shuddered as you were banished
and slithered
away.

Where did you go?

Would human kind now believe
that every angel is terrible?

And so we rallied ourselves.
We organized:
Battalions
Regiments
Brigades
Divisions -
A heavenly host.
Seraphim to guard the holy of holies
Cherubim to protect humankind from themselves
The great princes: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel
And one throne now vacant, O Lucifer,
Star of the morning.

Guardian angels
Earth angels
Hark, the herald angels sing.

An army of goodness.  
Thousands upon thousands of us,
working tirelessly to protect and defend.

And yet, still they're drawn
to you, O Lucifer
Prince of darkness
Roaring lion
Tempter of God Himself -
Terrible, beautiful
Star of the morning

The Fallen Angel
by
Alexandre Cabanel

https://www.culturefrontier.com/the-fallen-angel-lucifer-painting/

Wednesday, February 07, 2024

Writing in the Dark of the Year: "I Stand on All Fours, My Fur ..."

 On this fourth week, the writing prompt that hit me between the eyes was this:

"I stand on all fours, my fur ..."

I couldn't actually read this piece - or any piece, for that matter - aloud this week. But here's what I wrote:

I stand on all fours, my fur rising ever so slightly from my suddenly unfamiliar body. (Is it my body that is unfamiliar, or is it everything else?)

Last Tuesday night I went to bed, stretched out as usual on the blanket on the floor behind my Friend's bed. She turned out the light, then she said, like she says every night, "Sleep time, SLEEP time, my little Earl Grey. Sleep time, my Faithful Friend. See you in the MORning!" 

But the morning never came. The dark night got blacker and blacker. The Good Rancher got up and made his breakfast and left. My Friend got up and called to me.

I didn't know where she was. 

I didn't know where was.

I bumped into a hard edge and did not know how to get around it so I stopped. I needed water, I needed to go outside, I needed to have my Friend say, "Good MORning, my little Earl Grey!"

She came back to find me. I almost didn't hear her footsteps. I was so scared that my entire body was shaking. I could hardly breathe.


"Come on, my dog! What's going on?" I looked at where I thought her voice was coming from. She cried my name like she never had before - "GRAAAAAAYYY!" 

She pushed me with her legs and put her hand on my head. She got me to where I could feel cool air on my face. So many smells. Birds chirping. Cats meowing. Musket yapping from the porch. I was so confused that I just froze.

I put out my foot, but there was nothing there. Suddenly I felt her next to me. Her hands on my shoulders. "Step!" she screamed, "Step! Step! Step! Step!"

I didn't know what to do. She had never raised her voice at me before. Except that time when she saw me with a baby barn kitten in my mouth. Was she angry with me, like then?

I heard tapping right below me. "Step," she whispered. I could feel her breath on my face. Salt water dripping onto my nose. I leaned toward her and my foot dropped down to reach a spot just below me. "Step," she said again and that same tapping below me. I followed her breath.


And then I felt the cold bristles of grass beneath me. "Go, on, Earl Grey," she said. I inhaled the scent of previous outside visits, both mine and the other dogs'. Some stronger than others.  I took a few steps into this blackness. I had to pee, but I was too scared to lift my leg. 

She called to me and I heard her truck running. Maybe we were going for a ride? But I could not find her or the truck. Suddenly she was in front of meIbumpedintoherlegs. The Good Rancher was there and he picked me up and put me in the truck. She was already sitting right next to me.

The movement, the noise, the smells. I could hear big trucks coming toward me and I pressed myself low on the seat because I couldn't see them and I was scared they were going to run over me.

We stopped at the place where the people give me treats, and the girl came out to help my Friend get me out of the truck. They put a noose around my neck and started to pull me, but I did not know where I was going so I sat down.

And I heard my Friend's voice. "My Faithful Friend," she said. "Come with me, Earl Grey."

They got me into a small room. I tried to walk around but I kept bumpingbumping into a huge box in the middle of the room. I put my head on my Friend's lap and everything was quiet. 

But not for long. Two other people came into the room and they made my Friend put a muzzle on me. Then they poked me in my foot, and they put something cold near my heart, and I felt whooshing air near my eyes. I started to pant.

My Friend and that girl got me back into the truck. The truck started and then there was a howling sound, like the coyotes on the hills at home every night. I tried to reach for her hand, which was always there when I put my head on the console, but I fell off the seat.

The howling stopped. So did the truck. The door next to me opened. She helped me get back up onto the seat.

We got home. I got onto the floor of the truck but when she tried to get me down I couldn't move. I could only shake and pant. 

She went away and came back and there was somewhere hard to put my foot. It was covered with something soft that smelled like her jacket. "Step," she said quietly. "Step." 

And I was on the blessed ground again.

This last week has been long. Cold weather. Accidents in the living room. I can't find my food until I am standing in the bowl. I spill the water. My head hurts all the time. I sleep a lot. The dogs avoid me, but those kittens stay close to me now. 







Nothing is the same. 

Except for one thing.

A long time ago she went away for a night, and when she came back the next afternoon, she smelled of blood and bandages and medicine and sadness. We could not jump up on her, and she did not bend down to give us our milk time, milk time. Something was wrong. 

She lay on the couch and I lay on the floor next to her. When she got up she went to the small room with the loud rushing of water. I felt I needed to go look after her. So I waited for her outside the door. 

And from that day on, whenever she goes to the small room with the loud rushing of water I always lie down, blocking the door, waiting for her, protecting her from the unseen enemy. Now everything is unseen, everything is the enemy.

Still. I still know when she is in that place, and I have still been able to find the door. And I would still protect her with my whole pitiful being.

She opens the door. I stand on all fours, my fur turning into shield and breastplate and helmet, and my useless eyes glowing jade green. I stand on guard for her.

And I hear her say the words she always says as she bends to stroke my back and head:

"Grey? Are you waiting for me, Grey? Oh Grey, you ALWAYS wait for me. THANK you for waiting for me, Earl Grey. Thank you for being my Faithful Friend. Do you love me, Grey? I think you LOVE me!! From the FIRST time you saw me, you loved me, and you wanted to BE my friend. And now, you are my FAITHful Friend, Earl Grey, and now, you are MY dog."

Everything has changed, but nothing has changed. I would give my life for her. 

I hope she can see that.



Tuesday, January 30, 2024

Writing in the Dark of the Year: How People Drink Their Tea or Coffee

 The assignment was simple: "What does the way a person drinks their tea or coffee mean about them?" We had 15 minutes.

My mind immediately went back to Solly and Erna, two of my favourite people to drink tea and coffee in the little tea house in Three Hills. I don't know if it answered the question of the evening, but I knew I wanted to spend a moment or two with them again. This is what I wrote:

"Welcome to Nilgiris Tea House. Here's a table for eight, if we just pull these two together ... May I take your order?"

SOLLY: "Coffee. Black."

ERNA: "I think I'll have a pot of tea. Now, do I want black tea or ... no ... it might keep me up. What about that Winter Palace Marzipan tea? It reminds me of the sugared almonds my daddy used to give us -"

SOLLY: "Erna! Just order! Everyone is waiting!"

The order is taken: five coffees and three teas. Four cinnamon rolls and three scones. Erna won't have anything, she has to watch her sugar.

Three minutes after all at the table are served:

THUMP.   THUMP.   THUMP.

THUMP.   THUMP.   THUMP.

ERNA: "Oh Solly, STOP! She's busy. She'll bring the coffee pot over as soon as she can -"

SOLLY: "I might die before she gets here."

ERNA: "Oh Solly, the doctor was just making a joke. Living in town is not going to kill you!

"Oh thank you, dear. It's his 88th birthday, and -"

SOLLY: "Erna! She doesn't have time for this! I just want to go back to the farm. Nothing wrong with me. I can still run my tractor. And out there I can pour my own coffee when I want to."

THUMP.   THUMP.   THUMP.

THUMP.   THUMP.   THUMP.

ERNA: "Oh Solly, stop!"

And then the news that he had died. Impatient in life, he was not impatient to leave it when the time came. At the reception following his funeral, Erna said that now she could come to the tea house and not be embarrassed.

"Welcome to Nilgiris Tea House. Here's a table for four. May I take your order?"

One coffee and three teas. Two orders of scones, to share.

Three minutes after all at the table are served:

THUMP.   THUMP.   THUMP.

THUMP.   THUMP.   THUMP.

She's sitting there with her empty coffee mug in front of her. Tears are getting caught in the creases of her face. She stares at the mug, stunned.

ERNA: "I can't believe I did that. I hated when he did that. Oh Solly -"




    

Tuesday, January 23, 2024

Writing In The Dark of the Year: All About Snakes

Week 2 of Writing in the Dark of the Year. For the first exercise we read Sylvia Plath's Rhyme and then we were asked to think of a story and give it a twist.

When we were in Coonoor, India, and going for walks with Mum on the Lamb's Rock road we would have "Snake Drills." Mum would call out, "Snake!" and we would have to freeze in whatever position we were in at that moment.

I saw my first snake at the ranch in the garden in 2023, a beautiful garter snake. I didn't know whether to freeze so I took a picture and shot it to Ivy and the Good Rancher. They both assured me that this snake wouldn't hurt me!

All this to say that the writing course I'm taking took a decidedly reptilian turn.

This is what I wrote:

Once upon a time in a land far away there was a garden, a garden full of the scent of eucalyptus, the sparkle of cinnamon, the punch of Tellicherry pepper.

Through the garden ran a river where fish would sparkle silvery in the cool, clear water. 

And the birds would flit and preen and coo. 

It was very good.

But there was a serpent in that garden, of course there was, hiding in the eucalyptus leaves, lying in wait for the innocent maiden who he knew would pass by him in the heat of the day. Surely she would notice him today. He would wait for her.

The maiden did come to the eucalyptus grove. She gathered her basket of leaves, piling them high as she breathed in their heady aroma. She paused for a word with her companion; and as she did, the serpent slithered surreptitiously into the basket of leaves, slid to the bottom with the faintest rustle, so soft the maiden never heard him.

She lifted the basket onto her head. It seemed heavier than usual, somehow. Maybe she was just tired, she thought to herself, as she trudged down the path to the factory.

She took her place in line, setting her basket down with a sigh.

From the depths of the basket appeared a sleek head with two obsidian eyes and a forked ruby tongue.

The maiden, lost in her thoughts, did not notice.

"Look at me now," the serpent hissed as his tongue flicked against her left heel and he made a loop around her ankle.

Almost faster than thought he wrapped himself around her, his head curling around about her neck, squeezing her in his vicious embrace.

The courtyard froze in horrified, helpless silence.

The girl, choking, petrified, fainted and fell to the ground as one dead. The snake exhaled, a victory hiss. She had noticed him. They all had noticed him. He had triumphed!

Slowly, slowly he unfurled himself from the maiden's supine body. He began to crawl away on his belly, back to the camouflage of the eucalyptus trees, back to wait for his next victim.

BOOM! The foreman's gun blew his head to smithereens.

---------------------------

For the second exercise we look at a picture the facilitator has selected for that night's work. This is what she had selected for week 2:

(Untitled by Katerina Plotnikova)

She showed it to us after I had read my piece ... Because of this weird coincidence, I thought I would include the second piece I read to the group that evening. After looking at the picture and gazing at the fresh face of the young woman with the world-weary eyes, my mind was transported to that first garden in the Book of Genesis.

The first part of the next piece is clearly not my writing, as you can see. My comments start immediately following the old, familiar story:

Genesis 3:1-7 (The Message)

"The serpent was clever, more clever than any wild animal God had made. He spoke to the woman: 'Do I understand that God told you not to eat from any tree in the garden?'

"The woman said to the serpent, 'Not at all. We can eat from the trees in the garden. It's only about the tree in the middle of the garden that God said, 'Don't eat from it; don't even touch it or you'll die.'

"The serpent told the woman, 'You won't die. God knows that the moment you eat from that tree, you'll see what's really going on. You'll be just like God, knowing everything, ranging all the way from good to evil.'

"When the woman saw that the tree looked like good eating and realized what she would get out of it - she'd know everything! - she took and ate the fruit and then gave some to her husband, and he ate.

"Then they understood what they had done. And they realized that they were not wearing any clothes. So they took some leaves from fig trees and sewed them together to cover their nakedness."

The man went to work, tilling the soil, setting up empires, toiling until he dropped with exhaustion.

But the woman, with the weight of the serpent's words wrapped around her head, looked down through the generations with knowing, tired eyes.

And the guns roared and the bombs hissed and the buildings dropped and the mothers wailed, Rachel weeping for her children, unable to be comforted.

And so it continued for 100 days and counting.

And the fig trees - unwitting props in the drama between good and evil that began to rage that day in the garden - bowed their heads and withered in Gaza.