Calendar Girl

They had been together for over 60 years when he said his final goodbye to her. Together they had created a busy, productive, satisfying life. They finished stronger than they began, loving each other to the end.

And then she carried on. She moved to town, as he had wanted; but she kept the farmhouse ready and welcome for the many family members and friends who come to see her. She arranged for an annual floor curling bonspiel in his honour, full of laughter, reminiscing, family members and, oh yes, some sizzling curling.

"I have the best of both worlds!" she exclaimed to me just today. Her silver linings dwarf her clouds, thanks to her courage and indomitable spirit.

We were on our way to Stettler, to the County office. I had received a phone call a couple of weeks ago saying that two of my photos had made it into the shortlist round for the 2025 county calendar. I was allowed to bring a guest to the unveiling of the calendar and the luncheon following.

I chose Eleanor as my date.

Council was still in session when we arrived so we waited in the room where we would eat lunch. King Charles hangs on the wall now - his 75th birthday is tomorrow.

Today he had nothing on Eleanor.

We were all called into the council meeting room and they announced the Grand Prize winner: Delaine Stewart, with a truly magnificent picture of combines perfectly situated under a double rainbow holding back the looming, thunderous sky. 

This picture actually took my breath. Get a copy of the Stettler County No. 6 calendar and turn to September to see for yourself.

Someone else was announced next; but I was watching the screen that was supposed to be showing the picture being discussed. However, the order had gotten a little confused and I saw something else that also took my breath.

I saw Eleanor. And Ken. And my picture, which I called "End of the Summer." 

I remember the day I took that picture. We had gone for a walk in the garden and they had shown me their shed with all the onions carefully laid out to dry. Then they asked me if I liked beets. Upon "Yes indeed!" Ken went and got a white plastic bag and a spade. I got out my phone and took what has become one of my favourite captures.

End of the Summer

I heard lovely Michelle, the Legislative Assistant who spearheads the Calendar contest each year, call my name and say I had two pictures in the calendar. She also said that I had brought the subject of one of the pictures as my guest today, and would Eleanor please come up too. 

Eleanor was met by County Reeve Larry Clarke who presented her with a framed copy of her picture and told her that hers was June's picture. She replied, "I never once thought that I would become a calendar girl, and look at me - 88 years old!" 

She brought down the house.

Eleanor and I were honoured to be joined for lunch by our own Councilor, Les Stulberg. After a delicious roast beef feast I asked if I could take their picture:

We left shortly thereafter, as another meeting was due to start at 1 pm. Our hostess said that Eleanor should take calendars as stocking stuffers for her family and friends, so sorry, gang, you know one of your presents!

"End of the Summer," she mused, almost to herself. "In more ways than one..." Then she straightened her shoulders and gave me one of her beautiful smiles. 

I had a couple of errands to run and then we pointed the truck back toward home.

But first we called the Good Rancher. "Did you ever think you would have a neighbour who was a Calendar Girl?!" Eleanor asked him.

"I don't need a calendar to know you're a beautiful girl!" he retorted immediately.

So there you have it. My neighbour and beloved friend is Miss June. 

"I will remember this day for a long time," she said as we hugged goodbye.

Congratulations, Calendar Girl! 

 

The Good Rancher

Six years ago on Valentine's day, the Good Rancher and I entered the state of holy matrimony.

It was a beautiful day, although at -9°, I couldn't help but wish it were a bit warmer.

My Dad had made it through what his doctor feared was H1N1 flu, but what mercifully turned out to be parainfluenza; he arrived in Three Hills from Calgary the night before and - although frighteningly frail - delivered a short message. He told the Bible story of Isaac and Rebecca's wedding, and how Rebecca "comforted him."

I determined then and there to be that kind of wife.

And when I saw how my bridegroom looked at me, I knew we were going to have a wonderful marriage.

The Good Rancher's son had flown up from his farrier course at Montana State University to attend the wedding on the Friday and do the chores on the Saturday so we could have a day together; the GR assured me we'd have a proper honeymoon when things slowed down. We drove said son to the airport on Sunday afternoon; after a delightful steak dinner, the 2 1/2 hour trip to my new home seemed to fly by.

The next morning hit me like a cold water shower: coffee and toast at 5:20? Still, I had my own work to do, so I tackled it earlier than I had ever done before.

This seemed to be the pattern. I grew more and more despondent, more exhausted. Soon I closed my tea house. I could barely cope in my professional life either.

("How do you spell matrimony?")

I asked my physician to administer an Alzheimer detection test. Negative.

Everything came to a head in October, and I went on stress leave. I was sleeping 18-20 hours a day. I was losing concentration and vocabulary. I was fearful and weepy. Meds were prescribed.

This was eight months after I had vowed to care for and comfort the Good Rancher like Rebecca did Isaac.

And through it all, neither by word nor by deed, did the man condemn me, question me or belittle me. 

His first wife, who had passed away in 2012 after 25 years of marriage, had been an equal partner with him. I never had the opportunity to meet her; but you can't live in someone's house, you can't get to know her friends, without discovering what an incredibly capable, kind, courageous, loyal and loving woman she was.

She was involved in every aspect of the operation. Her shoes would be impossible for me to fill.

He needed a bookkeeper. I didn't even look at my pay stubs.

He needed someone to ride out with him to check and move cattle, and for the sheer pleasure of exploring the beauty all around from the back of a horse. I had never really ridden before, and certainly never like this. Within months of arriving out here I fell off the mildest mannered horse ever, fracturing my tailbone and putting to rest that dream of his.

He needed someone to organise his mail, pay his bills, run his household. I could hardly get out of bed and shower most days.

("How do you spell failure?")

And yet he stuck with me. There were humourous moments along the way. One time, just before lunch, I took a pill from my prescription designed to reduce anxiety. The GR and son joined me at the table for lunch.

A couple of hours later I awoke with my face in my plate: the medication apparently had been too strong for me. Later, I asked the GR why they had left me. His response was, "When you fell asleep we didn't know what to do, so we went back to work ..."

Fair enough... 
("How do you spell potato face?") 

I knew nothing - NOTHING - about what life on a ranch entailed. (When I first met my future sister-in-law, she asked me if I had an Ag background. I responded, "What's that?") How had we ever been crazy enough to think this would work?

You know the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child"? It took several villages to support the Good Rancher and me as we navigated marital mine field after mine field. The village of our churches came around us and stood with us and prayed for us. The literal village of Endiang just up the road met me and started to take me under its collective wing. The village of my family listened to me and prayed for us. They dropped over when they could. And my sister-in-law, the very experienced rancher and notable horsewoman? She met me where I was, and has supported and encouraged me; she and the GR's brother have always made me feel welcome and included. I am very fortunate indeed. 

About two weeks after we married, my parents' friend Leona told me she had to tell me something, based on her personal experience: "The cows will always come first, sorry to say. I should have warned you earlier, but I wanted you to marry him. But just keep it in mind ..."

("How do you spell secondplace?") 

There was one small chore I seemed to have a bit of a knack for, and that was bottle-feeding baby calves. Keep in mind that bottle-feeding is the absolute last resort for some of these babies, who might have lost their mums, been a twin, or been simply too frail or sickly to survive without care.

So, inevitably, some will not make it.

I take each loss personally. I can't seem to help it; it embarrassed me terribly, but my grief for the baby calf combined with my own personal torment threatened to overwhelm me at times. I was concerned that it made the Good Rancher uncomfortable, frustrated even. After all, One. Sickly. Calf. Compared with the entire herd he cares for every day, it doesn't seem like such a big deal. Each time I lost one, I would try to suck it up, try not to be such a baby.

Until The Day.

We had an older guy from Ontario who needed a few weeks' work before he transitioned to his next position. One morning he came in for coffee and commented that the stupid, sick little calf he had gone to check on was just lying there. "Is she dead?" I gasped.

"What if it is? It's not worth anything!" he responded.

Coffee was over. We drove across the road to the other yard. I hurried over to the pen where the baby I had loved and cared for lay, motionless. "My baby?" I whispered.

Just behind him, I heard the guy exclaim in irritation, "For Pete's sake, what's the big deal?"

Then I heard the Good Rancher reply firmly and with conviction: "If it matters to her, it matters to us."

He confirmed that the baby was gone, and held me while I cried. There was no rush in him during those long, soggy moments. When I managed to compose myself, he scooped up my baby's body and carried her gently away.

And I recognised in that moment (for that moment!) that this man understood me - perhaps better than I understood myself, those days ...

("How do you spell understanding?")

A short while later he brought me Judah, a Charolais cross baby with nothing wrong but a lazy mum and a fierce appetite. "This little guy needs some love!" he called out cheerily; and love him I did.

Fast forward to this time last year, and Judah turned out to be the adolescent father to my baby Angel, our first "shop calf" whom the GR allowed to live between his hefty tractors and feeding equipment ...

Angel was born in frigid February 2019 weather to a mum who was too small for this enormous calf she had produced; she was too sore even to stand up, much less look after her baby. The Good Rancher stopped what he was doing and went to bring over the calf-warming box. He carefully laid this little scrap in it as I went to make a dose of colostrum. We had to feed her with a tube that first time; but when I went to comfort her, she sucked my fingers and I knew she would be fine. She never looked back. Her mum, too, recovered, although she wasn't able to feed her.

I took it into my head, though, that Angel - who was so named by my friend Ivy - needed the reassurance of her mum. I mentioned to the Good Rancher that I hadn't heard her little voice at all, that she didn't know what a moo was!

Without any fanfare, he picked up the baby and carried her gently over to the little straw barn he had built for Angel's mum, and left the two in there together for a short while.

The next morning, Angel mooed ...  

And this year, we have little Gabe:

("How do you spell patience?") 

Over the past six years, we have endured injuries, prairie fire, a flooded basement; a much-loved son spreading his wings and choosing a different course for his life, and in the course of events welcoming a beautiful, vivacious daughter-in-law.

("How do you spell succession planning?") 



We said goodbye to my Dad; we said hello to Levi.

("How do you spell sorrow? "How do you spell Little Wrangler?")

We barely made it through the winter and spring of last year. It was so cold. There was such great loss, not just with us but everywhere in the neighbourhood. We didn't even put up a Christmas tree.

("How do you spell bleak?")

All I ask for at Christmas is a card. That's all I ever want, regardless of the occasion. He never made it to the store to get one - until this past Christmas... 

He is rarely on time. I hate unpunctuality.

("How do you spell late?")

He is a morning person, and falls asleep in his chair shortly after dinner each evening. I cannot get up early with any coherence, but come alive after dinner and can keep going until 2 a.m.

("How do you spell incompatible?") 

He will let things lie where they land. I yearn for a place for everything, and everything in its place.

He occasionally puts his foot in his mouth. I do my best not to offend anyone.

He is boisterous. I am reserved.

He is courageous. I am afraid.

When he is composing a text or writing a note, he is constantly asking me how to spell words. I used to do this for a living.

("How do you spell annoying?!")

I like the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra. He likes the Calgary Flames. 

But. He loves people. Anyone is warmly welcomed, and he will make time in his punishing schedule to visit, to let people see the beauty and the grace in this relentless, often isolating life. He loves kids and will happily saddle up a horse and take them for rides, or introduce them to the newest baby horses and calves. 

He loves his animals. 

I started calling him the Good Rancher because one day he was checking his mums and babies, and there was a little one missing. He searched high and low for him for well over two hours. He finally spotted him, curled under a pile of straw at the top of a hill. He loaded the baby up and took him to his mother.

That afternoon, it occurred to me he worked like the Good Shepherd.

("How do you spell shepherd?")

He loves the Good Shepherd, and there is never a day that he doesn't start off by committing the whole operation to Him, or end by thanking Him for getting us through another day. "This is all His," he will tell me frequently. "We're just stewards. We have a great boss!"

He loves my family. We can be overwhelming and tend to move like a pack and be sentimental, and for the most part he enters into our adventures whenever he can.

("How do you spell seriously?!")

He welcomes my friends. When my high school chum got in touch with me after 40 years and we made plans to meet up, he enthusiastically welcomed her and her husband - not once but twice! - and now is demanding to know when they can come back again. Mark has hit a rough patch with his health recently, and the GR feels it as deeply as would a brother.

He is intrinsically kind. When Molly, his beloved milk cow who would foster two or three little motherless calves in addition to her own calf each year, had some trouble with labour and delivery for the first time in 14 years, he himself went out and walked her in; no rushing or panic for his girl! He handled her as gently as possible with the birth, and named her strapping calf "after our Mark", who had assisted him in the birthing process and was now the godfather. And then, when she was recovered, he slowly led her and her Mark out to choice pasture. "She owes us nothing," he said. "I want her to just enjoy her baby this year. She is officially retired."

("How do you spell kind?")

He loves me. In the midst of my despair, when I could hardly talk to people, he let me get dogs. And now he lets them ride with him, making sure everyone gets a turn. 

When Musket got hit by a passing truck and we almost lost him, the Good Rancher's tender care, alongside the vet's expertise, saved him. To this day, Musket and the GR have a special understanding.

("How do you spell tender?")

We never did get to that honeymoon. But when my Dad died and I missed him beyond belief, the GR allowed me to create a little spot in memorial to him, a place of peace and adventure and refuge and fun and beauty and stories. A place where all are welcome.

("How do you spell sanctuary?")

We went to an auction once, where he was selling some steers, I believe it was. After his animals were sold he was sitting and visiting with his buddy Ron when a solitary little cow trotted into the sale ring. The big buyers looked at her with scorn. Even the audience laughed at her oddity.

I got upset on her behalf, and turned to the GR. "Everyone is laughing at her! We have to do something - please, honey?!"

One bid. No one countered. And Diamond K, for so her tag read, was ours.

Everyone then laughed at the GR. "This is why you don't bring your wife to an auction!" they chortled.

("How do you spell sucker?")

All he said was, "Don't say I don't buy you diamonds, K ..."

("How do you spell jewel?")

Diamond K went on to have an oddly beautiful calf named Felix, and turned out to be one of the best mothers of the year ...

He works long hours uncomplainingly. He does the work of two or three people without blinking an eye. And every morning, bleary from lack of sleep, he starts his day with this prayer: "Thank You, dear God, for this new day ..."

These past six years have not been without their challenges, but this year I started to see how much he has had to bear in terms of adjusting his life to include me. And he has done so with grace and patience and love.

And this year, knowing he couldn't leave the ranch for a full day and knowing how I loved to be with people I love on special occasions, he decided we would have a small dinner at home, catered for a few of those people we love - all I had to do was set the table and pick up the meal.

It was a wonderful evening.

("How do you spell happy?")

I found a card for him to give me this year - I figured he wouldn't have the time to go get one ...

So happy anniversary, GR! Despite everything, thank you for still looking at me like you did back in 2014.

You are sound asleep as I, wide awake, write. As far as I can tell - I am still clueless on so much of what you do - you are indeed a very accomplished rancher. But because of all of the above, you are The Good Rancher. I am so proud of you.

("How do you spell blessed?")

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 ...