A Child's Lament

This afternoon my instinct was to veer east into Eagles Field, as we now call it.

The men have seen the eagles circling the silage pit and the corn field. I have seen one parent, last Friday, near our neighbour Randy's yard. I have gone to the grove of trees holding the nest regularly, and there was never anyone there except for last Monday: Little Bird was sitting there, motionless, in the heat of the afternoon, her back to the nest that cradled her not that long ago.

Today as I pulled the truck close to the fence that divided Eagles Field from the one I can drive a truck in, I saw an almost unrecognisable lump high up in the tree adjacent to the nest. It seemed to be roiling in pain. 

After long minutes it straightened itself out: Little Bird, feathers looking ruffled and bedraggled.

Little Bird, clearly in distress, crying.

This was the first time I have heard a sound out of either of the children.

Two shadows crossed the truck. The parents, never too far away, winged their way to the grove. The father circled over the scene, and the mother swooped in. She landed next to her child for a moment; and then she perched on the edge of the nest, where she could watch and encourage her. 

Sound on!

Little Bird could not be comforted. But somehow, even as she cried, she must have heard the familiar tones of her mother gently chirruping at her. Finally she took to the air; her mother joined her. 

All too soon, however, the young one was back, on the same branch, still in distress. She was trying to fly, but couldn't seem to summon the courage.

Back came the mother, circling the trees and flying in to land, this time on the branch right next to her child.

Startled, Little Bird took flight. 

This time she didn't return.  

Now it was the mother's turn to fret on the branch. Just as Little Bird had, Mama Bird became agitated, peering down at the ground. 

Finally she, too, calmed down and left.

I was curious as to what might have upset them so much so I picked up the side-by-side and drove right to the area, now devoid of birds.

Nothing.

I looked up from this unfamiliar position underneath the nest and the trees and breathed deeply, thinking about these two birds I have come to care about so fiercely.

 

And then it came to me.

Today is 17 years since my Mum left this earth for heaven.

Sometimes a girl just needs her mum, even though she's been gone for 17 years. There may not be a reason. She just wants to know her mum is nearby.

And I thought of what my Dad's friend Tony Hanson told him: "She is with God and God is with us. So she's not very far away."

Even when Little Bird will have to part from her mother, in the regular course of things, I want to think they will still be connected in some way. She will have learnt what it is to be a good eagle because of how her mother has always been there for her. 

Including when she cries.

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!

Time in a Bottle

Early in the morning, this day, three years ago, my Dad shuffled off this mortal coil, to borrow from Shakespeare.

Everything was in order, just as he would have liked it. His friend and ours, Char, had come over the previous afternoon. Char had taken over the teaching of Dad's Wednesday Bible study when it got to be too much for him, and she would come over every Thursday and go over the lesson with him and they would have an often lively discussion. This particular Thursday, Dad had had a good lunch and their conversation was interspersed with gentle laughter and the flipping of pages to certain passages of the Bible.

As she prepared to leave Char got up, walked over to Dad and said, "May I pray for you, Allan?"

At the end of her prayer she rested her hand on his shoulder and murmured the old words:

The Lord bless you and keep you, 

The Lord make His face to shine upon you

and be gracious unto you, 

The Lord lift up His countenance upon you

and give you peace. 

.

Then she bent over and placed a kiss on his forehead - "... see you when I get back from my trip..." and she was gone. 

BA returned from work and we had tea and a "rose cookie toast" - a highly prized treat from Deb's Christmas kitchen.

I was getting ready to leave when suddenly a car drove up - Deb herself, who had decided to come down one night early instead of the Friday morning as originally planned.

The sun started to slip away and I had to go; the drive back to the ranch terrified me, more so when it was icy and dark.

On the way was a beautiful sunset. I stopped to take a picture, as I often did, to show Dad the next day.

Of course, that didn't happen. Instead, I received the phone call from Deb.

On the desolate drive to Dad's house, I had rarely felt so alone. As I approached the Tolman River I sort of asked God if they were together, if they had found each other. A few moments later, on a precipitous part of the highway I looked up, and there was this sight:

Startled, I stopped in the middle of the lane, turned off the engine and watched them for approximately ten minutes. No cars came for that entire time. 

They moved only to look at each other a couple of times; the rest of the time, they stared straight at me.

Then finally, when I could breathe again, they turned in unison and, looking at each other, slowly disappeared over the hill.

When I got to Dad's home the girls told me that his body was lying on his bed, just as they had found him.

When I walked up to his hospital bed, he looked completely at peace. He had removed the nasal prongs that delivered his oxygen, kicked off his blanket, and appeared to be stepping joyfully out of this life into the next.

Dad had used his time on earth wisely and to the best of his ability, and so he could leave without regret and without second-guessing.

"Nothing to prove; nothing to lose," as he used to say.

He was free.

Untrammeled.

The thought of using time wisely, of time slipping away at a seemingly accelerated rate each year I add to my life, has been weighing heavy on my mind for the last couple of months. One of my literary heroes asks the question:

The first Sunday of January this year, The Church at Endiang had a special New Year's service where - following in Dad's footsteps - we each chose a promise for our year. 

It had come to me at around Christmas time while I was pondering our group that meets on the first and third Sunday evenings of the month how different we are from each other, what a wide variety of backgrounds and experiences we bring to our gathering. What do we really have in common? 

What all of us have in common is time. All things being equal, we will all have the same amount of weeks in the upcoming year, the same amount of days. 

Of course, the inevitable caveat: the scripture reminds us that "our times are in [God's] hands," that there are cases where lives run their course before we are ready to say goodbye. 

The nightly news gives credence ... 

Beloved friends are diagnosed, with the addendum "inoperable" ...

Other treasured friends miraculously complete their "18 months to two years countdown" and shakily emerge on the other side with no timeline, no expectations, just gratitude for 17 bonus days and counting ...

One mother mentioned to me that her tiny daughter had commented no one would shoot her because she was pretty. Even in her innocence she is aware on some level that time can be upended.

Madison Rose, 12 minutes.

Baby L, born too early to be able to sustain life. Baby A, fighting for more time, for a chance.

Virgil. George. Maynard. Three brothers, each in their prime.

Pulmonary fibrosis, 84 years old.

Multiple myeloma, 70 years old.

Multiple myeloma, 48 years old.

We can all add our heartbreaks to the list.

Time is so fragile, so precious. 

So as I was contemplating our new year's service I thought that maybe we could mark the progress of 2020 with a simple exercise: I gathered glass bottles and jars in a variety of shapes and sizes and placed 52 little sparkling pebbles in every jar, the containers representing us and each pebble representing a week in the year ahead of us. I suggested that when we went home, we find an empty container and each week we transfer one pebble from the original container to our second container. We can keep an informal track of the passage of time.

I just moved my third pebble over. 

It's sobering and it's also a challenge. It's causing me to reflect on life, on values, on expectations. It's causing me to slow down and also to speed up. I've had a couple of awful days where I've wondered what is the point. And then a couple more days of clearly seeing what the point is.

I think my Dad might have liked this exercise.

A song from a CD my sister gave me has been playing in my head a lot for the past two days: Andrae Crouch's song from the 70s, "It won't be long". In two minutes he sums up what I'm feeling:

As I drove on the Snake Trail from Hanna to Endiang yesterday evening, the sunset was gorgeous. I was wishing I could show the picture to Dad the next day.

Of course, that didn't happen.

But somehow, I feel he knows ...

First Anniversary

Every June 10 for nine years, he planned the celebration with meticulous care. 

One year there was an Indian feast. Several years there was an Indian feast. One year he was in Hanna Alliance Church for its 75th anniversary.  Of course, he talked about her there too ...

In 2011 he brought out the family china and polished each piece of silverware by hand. We had crown roast, which he discussed in great depth with his local butcher before he ordered it. After all, 2011 would have been their 50th anniversary ...

He was her life here on earth. She was his. 

They weren't always together on their anniversaries. Work and kids perforce kept them a day's journey apart for a number of years. But she would arrange a candlelight dinner in Coonoor for herself and the children and we would get to wear her rings and talk about their wedding day.

Sometimes she would cry, just a little, before pulling herself together and finding her smile, the smile that told her watchful kids all was well.

And he would write her a very special love letter or poem in the solitude of his apartment in Bangalore.

Sometimes during those last nine anniversaries he would tear up, just a little, before pulling himself together and finding his smile, the smile that told his watchful kids that all would be well.

The one thing I really, really wanted from Dad's house was this picture of them. It's my favourite of all. DECADES after the wedding pictures were taken, they are still glowing, still attached.

Still in love.

This year, he didn't have to prepare a thing. They were together again, after nine anniversaries apart.

I know we don't know for sure what goes on in Heaven when people who have loved each other so devotedly are reunited.

But today I'd like to think that they're starting a whole new tradition. Today is their first anniversary together in Heaven - no more pain, separations, sorrow, weariness.

Here below, their children carried on the tradition: those of us who could gathered at their son's home and one of their daughters served up a Moroccan feast, complete with hand washing in warm rosewater-scented water, and music provided by another sister. Their beloved daughter-in-law made the desserts.


Grandchildren and their great grandchild, the new H.A. Ironside, were present.
 
And the love at the table was palpable.

We all knew that "they are with God, and God is with us, so they're not very far away." So we found our smiles, for all truly is well now that they are together again.

For old times' sake, another tradition:

Happy anniversary, Mum and Dad!