"Lonely for the Country": Haikus for a Heifer

Tuesday at 7 pm was the last session of our winter-to-spring poetry zoom class "Touched by Words: The Companionship of Poets", and I am sorrier than I can describe to know that next Tuesday I won't be "gathering at the table" with my companions of the last six weeks. The first week our course facilitator, Tim, had requested that each of us describe a table that held significance in our lives. By the end of the exercise, I felt like we would all be welcome at any of those tables.

This is the second "Touched by Words" course I have taken. Tim sends out a folder of poems he has chosen for us to receive that week; and to conclude this course, he asked each of us to bring a poem to the class. Because there would be 16 poems, we would take the last two weeks in order to be able to discuss them and to reflect on their impact on our minds and hearts.

I chose this one:

Lonely for the Country, by Bronwen Wallace

Sometimes these days
you think you are ready
to settle down.

This might be the season for it,
this summer of purple sunsets
when you stand in the streets
watching the sky, until its colour
is a bruised place
inside your chest.

When you think of settling down
you imagine yourself growing comfortable
with the land and remember the sustained faces
of men like your grandfather, the ridges of black veins
that furrowed the backs of their hands as they squared
a county boundary for you, or built once more
old Stu McKenzie’s barn exactly as they’d raised it
60 years ago.
You watch the hands of the women
on market days, piling onions, filling buckets
with tomatoes, their thick, workaday gestures
disclosing at times
what you think you recognize as caring,
even love.

At least that’s how it looks
from the outside and when you think
of settling down, you always think of it
as a place.

It makes the city seem imaginary, somehow.
As you drive through the streets,
you begin to see how the lives there look
as if they had been cut from magazines:
a blond couple carrying a wicker picnic-basket
through the park, a man in faded brown shorts
squatting on his front lawn
fixing a child’s red bike.

You wish you could tell yourself
that this is all too sentimental.
You want to agree with the person
who said, “There’s no salvation
in geography.”

But you can’t
and you’re beginning to suspect
that deep within you,
like a latent gene, is this belief
that we belong somewhere.

What you know
is that once you admit that
it opens in you
a deeper need.
A need like that loneliness
which makes us return again and again
to the places we shared
with those we can no longer love,
empty-hearted, yet expectant,
searching for revelations
in the blank faces of remembered houses.

As wide as bereavement
and dangerous,
it renders us innocent
as mourners at a graveside
who want to believe their loss
has made this holy ground
and wait
for the earth beneath their feet
to console them.

Wallace, Bronwen. “Lonely for the Country.” Common Magic. Canada: Oberon Press, 1985.

I shared with the group that it seems like I have always been looking for a place to call my home. And in pondering this poem, I had come to the realisation that maybe the physical land location is not as important as the settling of the foundation in my heart and spirit. 

I was the third one to read. I gave a heads up that I might have to leave and give the Good Rancher a hand with a small heifer who was going a little bit crazy. He had brought her into the calving shed and I had visited her before class. She had been lowing, darting around her pen; somehow my voice calmed her down. 

"If you do leave, come back and let us know how it went - give us a haiku poem!"

It ended up that the GR did text me and I joined him at the squeeze, where he had already managed to walk the distressed little heifer. He had examined her and feared that the calf inside her was dead. 

He was stripped down to his shirt sleeves and jeans and bare hands. I used my phone as a flashlight and steadied the calf puller and held the chain wrapped round the miniature foot. I had managed to grab one glove so at least my hand was protected from the frozen metal.

It was -11° plus wind chill. The howling wind made a mockery of the first-time mother's keening and dashed the brittle tears from my face. "Another half minute and my hands will be frozen," I heard the GR mutter. "The main thing now is to save the mother. She's a good little heifer." Right then she lurched, going down. Somehow my voice reached her and she staggered to her feet again.

Long minutes followed as the GR pulled and the heifer pushed; into the beam of the cellphone the tiny, lifeless head finally appeared.

She was so pretty.

The GR walked the little heifer - perfectly calm now - back to the pen with blind Liesl and two other heifers getting close to delivery. She immediately went to drink water and then started in on the hay. He came back to gather up her baby's body. "She was just too small," he told me. "She went into labour too early." His teeth were chattering. I gathered his vest and jacket and gloves and carried them back to the house. 

The class was in the waning minutes of our time together. I debated not reentering the group. There was a discussion going on about Curtis's poetic offering. Maybe if I just stay quietly in the background ... I thought to myself. 

Someone noticed I was back and asked how it went with the calf. Others chimed in. I gulped. 5-7-5 syllables for Haiku, I thought to myself. "I will try a Haiku," I said.

Calf too small to live
[something about freezing air]
Human skin is numb

Silence ensued; I felt, through the zoom screen, sorrow.

And I also felt this: Heard. Held. Home.

Tim read us a final blessing to our time together. Everyone dispersed quietly.

I sat still for a few minutes and a couple of weak haikus came to me, my offering for the valiant little heifer and her first calf.

Calf too young to live
Night freezes, above us stars
Human heart is numb

The bleak midwinter
Dead baby; save the mother
All creation groans

Still think home's a place?
Your shaking voice brings comfort
Maybe you've arrived

[a nod to Bronwen Wallace's poem:]
Settling down, a place
A bruised place inside your chest - 
We belong somewhere

The final words Tim had read to send us on our way were from a poem that had come to him for the second session. As he read the last two lines tonight, though, he changed the pronouns. I felt he did that for me, and for the remarkable fellow farmers in our group. Who knew there would be such a gathering of us - a furrow of farmers, perhaps?! -  in this class and how frequently our time together these past weeks would be dotted with references to this form of heartbreaking, heartfilling, stewardship to which we have been branded?  

Listening Deeply, by Dick Allen

Listening deeply,
sometimes - in another - you can hear
the sound of a hermit, sighing
as he climbs a mountain trail to reach a waterfall
or a buddhist nun reciting prayers
while moonlight falls through the window onto an old clay floor,
and once in a while a child
rolling a hoop through the alleyways of Tokyo, laughing,
or a farmer, pausing in a rice field to watch geese fly,
the thoughts on her lips she doesn't think to say.

A true benedicta.

Sorrow shared is halved
New friends, old table, comfort
Tonight - I am home

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."

Mark 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!"