Leaving the Nest

Vision Credit Union Calendar Contest - Eagle link

Thank you for voting for my eagle family in the Calendar Contest! Click on the link above, scroll down past all the contest rules etc to below my eagle picture; click on the heart at the centre of the blue bar, and you've done it! Repeat every day until September 2, 2024 ...

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Leave the field that the eagles call home and turn left onto the 855. Go up to the tower and turn left. Drive 20 kms on dusty gravel and turn left onto the 36. Head north for a few kms, past the burnout; and on your right you will see, about a quarter mile off the highway, a little white house with a red roof.

Only about 12 miles from the Good Rancher's place, as the eagle flies.

As you turn off the 36 onto the gravel something wonderful happens. A rainbow appears. Wait, a DOUBLE RAINBOW, arching gracefully over the house.

This house, this nest, that launched eight fledglings in their time:

Gordon

Mary

Allan

Clark

Margaret

Bruce

Mabel

Marilyn

This particular evening, the symbol of promise hovers over this place as my sister brings her son to see it, to see the nest that nurtured his family four generations ago.

The place where Ruth and Tiff brought their premature, sickly baby son after he was released from the Hanna hospital. Where Ruth prayed, "God, if you save my baby, I will give him back to you to serve you."

The place where she wept, 26 years later, after she had waved goodbye to him from the steps of their home and watched the car all the way up the dusty quarter mile until it vanished from her sight. Not once did she ask him not to go.

Her son Allan served God in India for over 40 years. Each time he returned to Canada for a brief period of home assignment, the first place he would go would be home.

He returned one time unexpectedly, shortly before she died. He came to tell her he loved her, to tell her thank you, Mom.

He had made his life on the other side of the world.

But he never forgot his nest.

First Flight

 

The day had to come, of course. Big Bird had been stretching, perching on the graceful twigs artfully extending out past the nest, flexing his back and feet and neck, fluttering and then flapping his wings. He had caught the air under his wings and then done an exhilarating lift-off straight up above the nest, where he beat his wings and remained triumphantly airborne for several fraught seconds.

This afternoon didn't seem any different from the other sleepy afternoons at the nest. I did my regular long-distance check to make sure there were two eaglets and one parent at the nest. Then I steered the side-by-side across the bumpy terrain until I came within 100 yards of the nest.

However, when I stopped, there was only Little Bird in the nest. Their parent and Big Bird had vanished.

Suddenly I heard the sound of two pairs of wings cleaving the air overhead. The parent eagles sailed silently above the copse of trees and disappeared on the other side.

I looked up into the trees and saw a quivering little mass clinging to a branch high above the nest, or so it seemed to me.

All his feathers trembling, he started to crawl up the branch.

And there he clung for long minutes, paralyzed with fear.

Until.

Until this:

They stayed thus for 38 minutes. The whole time she was almost whispering to him. She never raised her voice, not even once. He fixed his eyes on her and visibly gained strength and confidence. I felt like this was holy ground.

Then, as suddenly as she had arrived, she vanished. He was bereft.

But she let him know she wasn't far away!

Armed with this security and with the instructions she had relayed to him as they perched there together, he finally felt emboldened to make his move:

Please excuse the disjointed aspects of this first flight video. I was holding the camera and my breath and stanching tears at the same time! This nanosecond clip just serves to show the heights to which our brave Big Bird soared ...

I was wondering where he would land, whether he would crash into the branches, what he would do next. I happened to point up toward the nest, curious to see how Little Bird was faring. I should have known that the person Big Bird would want to tell his adventure to was his nest mate!

Don't you wonder what Mama Bird said in those quiet moments to her fledgling? Whatever it was, the words must have been filled with wisdom, practical instruction and encouragement. She knew she couldn't fly for him, but she let it be known that she wasn't very far away. Such love!

It took me back to 1988. I was going through a very rough time, about to launch myself out of the nest I had been hiding in. One of the hardest parts was telling my parents. 

My Dad silently gazed at me for long moments and then he came to me and wrapped his arms around me and enveloped me in a hug I can feel to this day.

He whispered one sentence: " 'Underneath are the everlasting arms.' "

And he was right.

What about you? Think back: did someone precious to you say words that would launch you into the next step of your life? How grateful we can be for those who love us enough to speak truth into our lives, exactly when we need it!

And oh, Big Bird, we are so proud of you! 

O Canada

O Canada! Our home and native land!

True patriot love in all of us command.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise,

The True North, strong and free;

From far and wide, O Canada,

We stand on guard for thee!

O Canada! Where pines and maples grow,

Great prairies spread and lordly rivers flow,

How dear to us that broad domain,

From East to Western sea!

Thou land of hope for all who toil!

Thou True North, strong and free!

O Canada! Beneath thy shining skies

May stalwart sons and gentle maidens rise,

To keep thee steadfast through the years
From East to Western sea,

Our own beloved native land,

Our True North, strong and free!

Ruler Supreme, Who hearest humble prayer,

Hold our Dominion within Thy loving care.

Help us to find, O God, in Thee
A lasting, rich reward,

As waiting for the Better Day,

We ever stand on guard.

God, keep our land glorious and free -

O Canada! We stand on guard for thee.

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee!

To the Place I Belong - A Thanksgiving Song

It started with a picture.

We were out for dinner to celebrate the Good Rancher's birthday, and also for one last hurrah before calving started and all that entails.

On the wall in the restaurant just above our heads was a picture of a horse, with his rider holding an apple behind his back. 

"That sums up what I want to see in a ranch hand," the GR mused. "Someone who loves their animals and who treats them — horses, cows, dogs, cats — with affection and respect."

We had gone through a series of hands since the GR's son had made his move to the Yukon, but none really fit the bill.

One had to leave because of a family situation.

One returned to the rigs.

One returned to his wife!

One was a butterfly, flitting from job to job.

One left to have a baby.

One had a driver's abstract that made him uninsurable.

One moved in and then never quite started working.

One started working but never quite moved in.

One even threatened the GR's life; the RCMP got involved.

Each time the GR got more and more discouraged. "I never want to hire anyone again!" he finally exclaimed after interviewing someone who had been the manager of his family's ranch before parting ways with the family, and who wanted the same position, accommodations and paycheque he had made while stating that he needed to work half as many hours as he had been working at home.

The GR had not spent a night away from this place in over three years. He had missed weddings and funerals, holiday celebrations, cattle sales.

He had pretty much missed Covid! Apart from the times he helped me deliver treats in the neighbourhood, he worked and went to church. (Even there, he was invariably late, poor guy ...)

And when the last hand — a Fine Hand, who had seemed fairly promising — suddenly quit with no notice for a Finer Opportunity and left us in a Fine Mess, the GR found himself stuck with me as his sidekick.

Oh. My. Word.

Things took twice as long in the field, and nothing was done in the house. McDonalds and Joyce at the Byemoor Bar fed us 60 per cent of the time. Tempers and blood pressures rose.

Friends and neighbours gave us a hand, often without even being asked — Don and Ivy, Bud, Brian, Jenelle and Cliff, Kiersten, Luke, BethAnne, Caite, Jean, Ben, Maureen and Jim, Kody, Stephen, Rhonda, Deanna, Kyle, Winnie and Eldon, Shalene, Kevin, Marv and Dianne, Walter, Marilyn, Hudson - and their help seemed to come right when we needed a little boost to keep us going another day. Hank and Mabel were always there with a listening ear and a caring heart. 

But when evening fell, we fell — asleep at the supper table, more often than not!

I was so grateful we had had that dinner at the Ranch House on April 7th. I ordered him a print of the picture for his birthday and got it framed for him for Father's day, something new crowning our "new" piano.

And then, on his lowest day, a phone call.

He didn't know what to think; when he shared the conversation with me, neither did I.

The GR's son had phoned. They wanted to come back to Alberta.

They wanted to come to the ranch.

They had been here last year during calving season, which happened to coincide with job losses due to the start of the pandemic, so it was a win-win — on a temporary basis.

But before that, before they moved away, things had been, well, a bit tense.

It is no easy thing to lose a spouse, to lose a mother.

When two grieving men are left to work things out, to figure out a new normal, to bridge the years-long habits of pain and distance and misunderstanding suddenly exposed in the wake of the departure of their beloved, it is a balancing act requiring more dexterity than a tightrope walker possesses. 

Then when a widower takes a new spouse, it does not replace the prior one. And no one can ever replace a mother.

So it was that there came a parting of the ways: the younger left to explore his options and the elder was left to carry on. Both took stock, separately. Both came to different conclusions.

I wrote my farewell letter to the younger here. My heart ached for each of them. For both of them.

And then, in 2018, the younger took a spouse himself. She seemed like the antithesis of the ranch. 

But she had ambition and determination. She was hard working and creative. And she had a smile like no other.

Like one other.

All these strong traits could be found in his mother, from all reports. The day we witnessed their wedding and I saw him looking at his new bride I thought of the old Bible story of Abraham's son Isaac. His mother had passed away when he was still quite young and he grieved her desperately. Back in those days, marriages were often arranged, and so it was for Isaac. 

But when Isaac saw Rebekah and they were married, this is what it says, in Genesis chapter 24 and verse 67:

Then Isaac brought her into his mother's tent; and he took Rebekah and she became his wife, and he loved her. So Isaac was comforted after his mother's death.

(from the album of 

Carly Tateson) 

And then they went north. True North. Communication was sparse as they carved out a new life for themselves. They blossomed and grew, two already gorgeous people truly coming into their own.

We missed them but rejoiced for them.

(from the album of 

Carly Tateson) 

Until the phone call. "What do you think?" the GR asked.

"Well, let's see if they really do show," I suggested. "They still have a couple of months to change their minds ..."

In the next weeks I often found myself gazing at a picture I have always kept on my piano. It captures three riders: the GR and his mother, Alice, and his tiny son, obviously sitting on his own mother's horse. I have no doubt it was she who took the picture.

It is one of my favourites. Dear God, please undertake. Please let this work, if it is Your will, I prayed several times a day. Please prepare each of our hearts ... 

On August 31 their vehicles pulled in, and on September 1 he reported for work.

On September 2 evening, the four of us sat down together at our kitchen table to chat.

They seemed different somehow, settled, happy. Together.

They seemed to have grown up.

And maybe we had too? Because it was pretty easy, that first visit. There was laughter. Questions asked and answered. Each person had a seat at the table, had a voice in the conversation. 

Finally the GR asked The Question. "How long?"

The son looked the father straight in the eyes. "I want to keep this place going. We're here. We have no Plan B. We're here."

My heart just leapt. I thought of my dad, who once was on an ordination committee that had just finished interviewing the candidate, David, on his suitability to be a pastor. Everyone seemed to have run out of questions.

Then Dad spoke up. "I have just one more question. If we deny you ordination, what will you do with your life?"

There was silence. Then David responded, passionately, "I have no Plan B! I HAVE to preach!"

"That was the answer I wanted to hear," replied Dad. And David was ordained.

That evening, I had the answer I wanted to hear.

Sometimes a person has a calling too insistent for a Plan B.

And every day since then the two men have answered the dawn, going their separate ways while feeding the herd and then coming together to move cattle, sort, wean, vaccinate, talk.

"There's so much I don't know," he had said to his Dad that first evening. "So much I need to learn from you."

And so they discuss and plan and grow together, grow the operation and the relationship.

The ranch's brand is TTT, an enduring tribute to father, mother and son. After one left this world, and after one left the ranch, it seemed like the remaining T, left to carry the triple load, would collapse under the weight of it. I did my best; but I will never be able to ride out and work cattle with anything except a quad or a side-by-side and a pack of semi-unruly dogs. I am the furthest thing from athletic — I can fill a gap, and I can coax baby cows up the chute; but I would never be a match against feisty heifers, arrogant bulls, knowing cows, hollering yearlings.

But he's back! 

And often she joins them, the golden girl on a golden horse. 

I think of her as the "GifT" (Girl Inhabiting the Final T) to this place at this time, the person who has all the makings of being able to pick up and carry forward the third T in the brand.

One day the two of us had a short electronic exchange:

My heart was full. 

On days that she is occupied at her own job, I try to get out to help as best I can. 

I watch the two of them, these two men whom I love more than all the cattle on all those hills, and I see how they work the field, work a herd, without any words needed. 

They both know this land and they know their herd, generational cows who also know the rancher and the hand and know the routine. It is a dance of synchronicity that brings tears to my eyes.

And when the cattle work is done, they ride home together, the father with the son close by on his right hand. They chat quietly together about what went well, what could be improved on, what is up next for the afternoon and the week.

They laugh together. They lead their horses in and out of the barn together. They ride out together and no one returns alone, one of the mantras of TTT. 

And I have seen both of them sneak a little treat into an equine mouth when they think no one is looking ...

They discuss feed and cattle rotation; they train horses (the son, a farrier by trade, is taking the lead on this part of the operation right now); they check water and herd health; they direct / put up with my Six Pack, who gambol around in attempts at being helpful while moving cattle; they feed the bottle calves; and the younger has taken over the care and feeding of old Ripper, the horse the GR and Debbie got the same year their son was born 29 years ago.

He has his Class 1, and so the two of them haul feed bales together after all the chores are done. They strategise about next year, about the future.

They truly are the man in the picture.

There is a saying that a load shared is a load halved. I am here to tell you that this is TRUE! The hours are still long; but the GR and I often eat supper together and sometimes he even makes it to bed before he falls asleep these days. We just celebrated the wedding of one of my nephews. The GR was able to leave the ranch, for the first time since I have known him, with not a worry in his mind. "No — I know he can handle everything," was his response when I asked him if he had any apprehension.

This year we invited them to come for Thanksgiving dinner on Monday evening, and they accepted. The GifT brought roasted vegetables, dressing and homemade buns. She helped me in the kitchen and with the washing up. It felt so easy. So right.

As I was laying the table in preparation for dinner, I thought back through the difficulties of the past couple of years; and I contrasted those troubled times with comments the GR has been making fairly often over the past month and a half:

"It was another great day ... Everything just seems so right ... He knows how things work around here ... That girl is gold. She is always in the right place at the right time ... I feel good. Things just feel right these days ... I hope I never have to hire anyone again ... 

"We can finally start thinking about the future, and it feels so right with him here."

And as I set the place cards on top of the napkins, the napkins that his son had given me for my second Christmas out here, I got it.

I know what his name is.

Thinking back to the list of hands that started this piece and finishing up with the GR's prayers of thanksgiving for the gift of his son, of his new reliance on him, there can be only one name.

The Right Hand. 

In every sense of the words.

Welcome Home.

Filling a Cavity

Had it seriously been five years?!

As I walked through the doors of my dentist's office, it hit me that the last time I was here I had brought my Dad in for some dental work. 

I think that my Dad actually didn't mind having not great teeth, because it gave him the opportunity to see one of the people his heart loved: Brian. 

Brian was drawn into Dad's tribe when he was around 16 or 17 and, once ensconced in his heart, Dad didn't let him go.

I checked in with Jen at the front desk - she has had a child since I last saw her; imagine! 

Then I sat in the waiting room and drew in a deep breath. 

On some days I feel the void his absence has left more than on others. I didn't know that this day would be one of those days. 

Before I could become completely maudlin, Jo came to take me back to the room. Jo has worked with Brian for over 20 years, and she forgave me for not remembering. She did x-rays and got me ready for Dr Brian to fix my broken tooth. 

"Did I mention to you that you're one of my oldest friends?" he began. 

"As long as you don't say I'm one of your eldest friends," I replied, and everything was as it always was.

My broken tooth contained an old silver-type filling that had to be drilled out and replaced, and then Brian built back the broken tooth so smoothly that I can't differentiate between the original and the artificial. 

While this was going on, Jo and Brian chatted over my head, their familiar voices almost like, well, family. 

Then as he was preparing to head to his next patient, he paused and — almost like it was out of thin air — he said, "Sometimes your Dad would say to me, 'You are precious to me'..." 

He looked at me. "You are precious to me," he said softly. 

A few minutes later he came up to the reception desk where I had bumped into my sister, who had booked an appointment six months ago for this very time! “You are precious to me," he said to her. 

"You were very precious to him," I replied. 

What a benediction, a bene dictum, for two daughters who had both been wanting a word from their Dad that day! 

Words ... they have so much power. They have the power of life and of death. A friend of mine who knows me gave me a splendid book not long ago, Peter H. Reynolds' The Word Collector. This book is the book I wish I had written. It is simple yet profound. I have it on my piano to remind me to use words wisely and well. There is a proverb in the Bible which says, "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver." A more modern translation reads, "The right word spoken at the right time is as beautiful as gold apples in a silver bowl" (Proverbs 25:11, KJV and NCV).

That is what Brian's words were to us last Thursday. 

Today, February 22, would have been my Mum's 84th birthday. She loved words, as did Dad. So in honour of her I have something to give away: a box set of three of Peter H. Reynolds' books. It contains Say Something, Happy Dreamer, and, of course, The Word Collector. 

To have a chance at winning this collection, all you have to do is write a comment - either at the end of this blog post, or on Facebook or Instagram, telling about someone whose words changed your life / outlook / day for the better. The Good Rancher himself is going to be the judge! I will read him the comments, minus the author's name, and he will choose the winner. 

Happy birthday, Mum. 

We love you, Dad. 

And from all six of Dad's children I say, You are precious to us, Brian. 

88

If my Dad were still with us, he would have turned 88 today.

I woke up earlier than usual this morning, thinking about the last of his birthdays my Mum was here to celebrate, his 75th.

She was lying in ER at Foothills Hospital in Calgary when a sister and I arrived to see her. She had had a brutal night and was in so much pain she was barely responsive, eyes shut, not speaking.

When we pulled the curtain behind us, she asked  - eyes still closed - "Has anyone got a cake for Dad?" We hastened to assure her that we would get one.

"It has to be wheat free and try to get no dairy."

We managed to find a tiny cake answering all the requirements for a mere $85 from a French bakery on 17th Avenue SW. By the time we returned to the hospital, she was in her own room. She was delighted. We never told her the price, and we agreed that it would have been worth twice that to see her smile and taste a minute morsel.

Two weeks later exactly, she was gone. That cake memory always makes me happy! 

I saw various tributes to Dad online; and then several other reminders of him presented themselves to me throughout the day.

The first was the verse from the daily calendar in the bathroom. I read it, and thought immediately, "This is speaking of Dad!" He devoted his life to studying the Book, and helping people to understand it. 

The second was a piece of paper that fluttered out from a stack I had placed to go through. He had compiled this list for a beloved daughter ten years ago. He knew who he was, my Dad did. "When you know God and you know yourself, you have nothing to prove, nothing to lose," he would say. 

When he died he had nothing to prove and nothing to lose. And he took the time to show her - and the rest of us - who we were before God. What a gift!

As I was getting ready to ride to the Brooks cattle auction with the Good Rancher, I had two men on my mind: my Dad, and our friend Mark, who is waiting in the shadow of the Valley as I write. I was praying for him, and for my friend / his wife, Miriam, earlier in the morning; and I was pondering the words of tribute and remembrance I had read. Does Dad know we're all thinking about him? Does he know we love him so? If time has been replaced with eternity for him, do birthdays even matter at all?

My phone rang. Just one ring and then silence. Curious, I checked to see who had called. The name was unfamil...

It was like one of Heaven's angels was delivering a message: "Mark is in God's hands; and yes, your Dad knows." 

Thank you, Mark of the Archangels! 

The Good Rancher and I headed to Brooks. It was a pretty day for a drive and we were together. (I guess it could be classified as a date, yes?!) We went inside and almost immediately he saw acquaintances he hadn't seen for some years. What a joy it was for him to pick up the threads of his previous world in the familiar surroundings of his youth. 

It also happened to be the auction house's anniversary celebration. 

Lovely Selena, who has worked there since the GR was a child, came over to greet him and told us to come and get some lunch.

I went but the GR said he would eat later.  

"What about him?" Selena demanded. I explained. She nodded twice. "I know him. He used to come with his mom and his brothers. He always was a shy boy. I'm going to put extra food on your plate, and you take two sets of forks and you share with him. He will eat."

And she was right.

As he ate, I was thinking - once again - about Blind Bart. Our dear neighbour had invited Bart to spend the winter and keep her calf Barny company in their lovely new barn - and then her old cow gave birth to twins three days ago! I knew Ivy would still take Bart, but that would have been so much added work and I couldn't in good conscience send him over.

I was mulling over possible solutions when suddenly into the auction ring (don't get ahead of me here!) trotted a solitary little black calf. Alert, chipper, 200 pounds of company for Bart.

I turned to the GR. "It could be Bart's friend! We could fix up the calving barn for them, couldn't we?!" 

He rolled his eyes and leaned slightly forward. I was mildly annoyed, thinking he was ignoring me - until the auctioneer said, "Sold!" and the GR looked at me and said, "There you go. I cannot beLIEVE I just did that." 

He turned to the friend sitting to his right. The man, smirking, shook his head and shrugged. "Wives," he commiserated.

The GR went to talk to one of the auction crew. There was not a single other calf at the auction that day. 

Of course, now we had to get this little scrap home. We left the auction shortly thereafter and drove the hour and a half north. When we pulled into the yard, the GR said, "See you later," and hopped into his truck pulling the stock trailer. Three extra hours of driving on the first afternoon he had had off in a long time ...

Another reminder of Dad took the form of a vignette at the main buyers chairs by the ring. A dad and his dark haired little daughter appeared and settled in two chairs for the afternoon. 

I could just see my dad, given half a chance, doing the exact same thing. 

When the GR finally returned home for the second time I made a litre of milk replacer to try to coax the baby calf out of the stock trailer. Sometimes this can be so tricky, because they are used to their mother and they are scared and disoriented. It can take a while to get them comfortable and willing to take a bottle.

The GR opened the door to the first compartment and as he was unlatching the next he said, "I'll catch her for you and hold her; see what you can do. Ready?"

As he swung the door open there was a bellow and a little rush and the baby launched herself at me. Not at me; at the bottle. She latched on and greedily devoured the litre and then started sucking my fingers.

The GR and I looked at each other.

"Oh. My. Word," he muttered.

"She was so hungry, I guess," I offered.

"No - she is a BOTTLE CALF! It's just getting worse and worse!" he groaned.

"Why? Isn't this a good thing? No work to train this one?" I asked, as I guided the baby by my fingers in her mouth out of the trailer, through the horse corral and into the pen where the other bottle calves were. "Why would someone be so heartless as to sell such a little calf?"

"Because he's a REAL rancher! No one in his right mind wants a bottle calf at this time of year!" 

I felt stricken, overwhelmed with guilt for adding to his already considerable burden.

He glanced at me, grinned and took my other hand. "Have you got a name for her?"

"88," I replied. "Dad would get such a kick out of it all. It's like this is a gift from him to me on his birthday!"

We got 88 into Bart's night-time pen and they jostled around with the grain pail like old friends. The other calves were not quite so sure about her; but by the time the bottle calves received their bedtime drink, everyone had settled down.

Another nod to my Dad actually occurred the day before his birthday. My friend and previous tea house employee Heather came to visit the Round-up Corral with her three small daughters, the first time I was meeting them and the first time in a long time I was seeing their mommy.

Now, I love my boys - stepson, nephews and great nephews. And when they want to hang out in Johnny and Sam's Bunkhouse and play with the horses and trucks and little plastic figurines of days gone by, I fully understand.

And yet - Dad created his Johnny and Sam on the Ranch stories as much for his daughters as for his son. He loved his girls with his whole heart and would enter into our pursuits, whether it was tossing a baseball about or playing with our dolls. He read to us. He sang to us. He walked and talked with us. He got our names mixed up, but he would end up at the right one ... He listened to us - oh, how he listened! He taught us scripture and led by example. When he told us about our Heavenly Father, it was easy for us to love Him; we had the best example possible here on earth.

When "my" girl with her girls drove away, I went back to look around the little Corral. To my delight, along with the trucks and baseball, I saw a doll perched on the chair outside the Bunkhouse and her pram waiting for her. 

It seemed so fitting. Dad seemed to be smiling, just out of sight ...

Thank you, and happy birthday, Dad!

Thank you, Good Rancher ❤️🤠!

Thank you, God!

Welcome home, 88!