Letter To My

Dear You,

Today was the first day of your new job. From the bottom of my heart I wish you great success and happiness. I am so proud of you for having the courage to take this gigantic step of faith and hope.

But I miss you already.

Today the house was eerily not itself. I found myself listening for your truck first thing in the morning, wondering if this was a coffee day or not. The dogs were all tentative, all subdued.

The baby calves - Amy, Hannah, Judah, Jeremiah, Red and Redder, Harry the Hereford and Stormin' Norman, and even Milk Cow Calf and Roaney - each one of them came over to me for a scratch on their backs and a kind word before they drifted off aimlessly to chew on something green. Not like their normal turbo-charged selves at all ...

Today even the hard-hearted sky managed to shed a few tears. It was difficult to spot from the impressions on the scorched ground, but the gutter spout bore clattering witness to the drops that were captured while sliding off the roof.

 Baling could not be done today; it was too wet. There was a trace of suspicious moisture in the operator's eyes a time or two as well.

When I married the Good Rancher three years ago, you were actually in college in Montana. You flew up for the wedding but had to get back in time for classes first thing Monday morning.

Based on that brief time, I was fairly optimistic that we had a good shot at making this unconventional housing situation work when you returned.

Who was I fooling?

That first long year we barely talked. You never initiated a conversation; and I, too eager, too unsettled in this frightening new life, regularly put my foot wrong. You would occasionally reply to a question; more often than not you would keep your eyes averted or look right past me.

The first time you spoke to me unsolicited was when your beautiful dog, Remington, was gouged open and bleeding profusely. The G.R. was unavailable. You asked me if I thought she needed stitches.

"This is the time you look to me for advice?" I thought frantically, as I gulped and tried to keep from getting lightheaded at the sight of the blood on the floor and the shock in her eyes.

"Yes, I believe she needs to get in as fast as possible," I managed in a fairly level voice, my hands shaking as I parted her hair for a better look.

"OK. Thanks," you murmured, and I found I had been holding my breath waiting for your response.

The Good Rancher finally emerged and I said we were going into Hanna. I was heading in anyway, to return the courtesy car and pick up the Yukon from the service bay. "I'll grab a blanket so her blood doesn't get on their seat," I offered and hurried back to the hall closet.

I chose the softest wool one I could find, a little faded and torn in a couple of spots.

"Here's an old one we can use! It will wash well and ..."

The looks on both your faces dried the words on my tongue. The Good Rancher silently reached for the blanket in my suddenly icy hand and headed toward the hall closet. He returned with a bright, anonymous quilt.

"That was Debbie's favourite blanket," he said softly. You would not look at me. How could you, at that moment?

And that in a nutshell was the crux of the matter. You have a mother, and her sad, untimely passing from this world will never change that. No one could take her place; the two of you had such a profound bond that even a pale attempt would be ludicrous.

When they talked together after they knew nothing more could be done, she encouraged your father to marry again - he was too young to remain single for the rest of his life, she pointed out. She had only one criterion: that the new wife love her son.

That I did. But I had no way of expressing it, except by keeping an eye and ear out for items you might need or want that would make your life more tolerable; by running occasional interference between two men who, let's face it, were grieving in their own ways; by trying harder and harder to force a square peg into a round hole until I could, if not blend into the situation, at least not stick out like a sore thumb.

To be honest, it's very rare that I succeed in any of those attempts.

So we continued until Christmas, the three of us edging warily around each other's circumferences, occasionally intersecting in awkward contact but then retreating as quickly as possible.

Christmas eve was when I finally dared to put up a tree, a new pencil-thin prelit artificial tree. There had been talk of getting a fresh one, "like always"; but it wasn't "like always" anymore, was it?

I had picked up a few new ornaments - didn't want to cause undue pain if avoidable! - and had carefully placed them on the tree at about 2 in the morning.

A few sleepless hours later we gathered in the front room to watch you open your presents. Suddenly you reached down beside the couch, lifted a wrapped parcel up and handed it to your Dad.

I was so busy watching him - the surprise, delight, love, fragment of loss that flickered for a moment over his dear face - that I initially missed your shaking hand holding out a tiny wrapped gift. "This is for you," you said in a thin voice. 

Unwrapping revealed a sterling silver bell pendant. Not just any bell, though: this one had a treble clef and the stave woven around it. Its clapper was a musical note.

This remains one of my greatest treasures, not just the delicate beauty of the piece but the realization that you were observing, you were paying attention to what I loved, to what was important to me personally.

Of course, that was Christmas. The next year went by pretty blurrily until the following Christmas. During the preceding year I had adopted two canine babies. Jenny was my heart's delight. Musket was her brother and mainly brought along to keep her company, until one day I realized I was crazy about him too. 

That Christmas morning, Jenny got run over by a tractor.

My grief was immediate and incredulous. I sat on the stairs leading from the back door to the basement. Behind me I heard the door quietly open and just as softly shut. And there was Remington, who crept over to me. She placed her head on my heart, one paw on my shoulder and softly sighed.

She stayed with me thus for an hour while I wept.

And ever since that day, any time I have suffered a big loss, you have brought Remington to me. She is unequivocally my greatest tangible source of comfort for the past three years.

This kindness notwithstanding, we have had our share of warmth and chill, of misunderstandings and comity. You have matured and stretched in ways that any mom would appreciate and applaud.

For example, after one three-way conversation that grew a little heated, you and I found ourselves together in the room and you quoted me something I had never heard before. I looked it up later ... you had summed up the situation precisely.

Even this last week, before you were due to move on out to prepare for your new job and life, the Little Fire on the Prairie happened. It was you who was there from the acrid start to the relief-inducing finish, you who kept plunging into the flames and beating back the edges of the conflagration with a damp sack.

All those who were there that day said that without you, we would have been in severe trouble and possibly sustained terrible losses. You were exhausted by the end of it, but you kept on fighting.

And so we come to this past weekend, when time it was for you to sweep the floor of your beautiful new home, spread your wings and fly away.

Here's something else I appreciate about your mother and those strong Cage women:

• When as a teenager she needed to get out of the city, where her father's work had taken them, and back to her roots and the horses she loved so dearly, her sister took her in.
• Some years later, she and your Dad took in two of her nieces for a considerable period of time.
• This past weekend, one of those same nieces came and helped you pack up and clean your home. The place was left gleaming.

You come from stock who care for their own. It is a legacy to be treasured.

But where does that leave me? You see, you have a mother; I have never had a child. As fate would have it, you will be the closest thing to that dream I will ever know. You introduced me to The Duke. You quietly explain reasons behind certain dictates that made no sense to me. You give me left-and-right directions when north-and-south are beyond my comprehension. You came with me to nurse sick, sick baby calves. You helped me name them and were kind to both them and me. My Dad loved you. He loved visiting with you.

In trying to analyse the relationship we have developed over the past 3 1/2 years, I would say that it is a painstakingly built - and growing - mutual understanding resulting in a unique measure of affection. I have worked with many teenagers and young adults; I have a handful of nephews, nieces married in, and quite a few friends about your age. Simply stated, in my heart you - you - are the fairest of them all.

And that is why, on this quiet evening, whether I have the right to or not, I feel these strange pangs of missing you. Yet I would never want to hold you back even if I could.

In the words of one of my musical heroes:

by Carole King, performed by James Taylor

You are one of the greatest gifts God has brought into my life. I am rooting for you. I am praying for you. I love you.

I am your friend. Always.