Dutch Lullaby

 I heard a song quite some years ago, performed by Carly Simon and her sister Lucy. "Wynken, Blynken and Nod" is a simple, catchy ditty harkening back to a more innocent time where little people could sail off to the land of dreams in a wooden shoe.

On Tuesday night the Good Rancher was checking out cow-calf pairs on Kijiji (because when caring for cattle sunup to sundown is not enough, one can always browse the cattle for sale on Kijiji, the updated version of the Eatons and Sears wish books...). He came across this listing; his exclamation drew me over:

Oh my. It couldn't hurt, could it, just to find out why they were selling? 

"We are a dairy farm and it doesn't fit in our operation. The calves are walking every where and are trying to suck our dry cows..." 

Those poor babies. 

We looked at each other. 

A few more messages were exchanged. Then Wednesday morning: "See if we can pick them up this afternoon," the GR said.

 "We are away today, but are home tomorrow" 

Thursday morning, as he was about to leave for barn chores in the newly-crowned Palace, the GR glanced back at me and said, "See if they are still available and if we could get there after 1 pm."

As we drove down the road we spotted the snow caps of the Rockies on the horizon. It was a beautiful, clear day. "What should we call them?" I mused. "Wynken, Blynken and Nod keeps coming to my head." I played him the Doobie Brothers version and the Simon Sisters version, but he couldn't really make out the words or the tune with all the air rushing around us from the open windows... 

We arrived at the dairy farm shortly after 2 pm, and Elize and Theo were there in the yard to meet us. Right away they took us to see their daughters' 4H steers, which had been shown the previous day." This is what the calves will grow up to look like!"

Then they showed us their heifers, who were clearly loved because they came up to us for head scratches and pats. "Our girls spend a lot of time with them," Theo commented wryly. 

After that we got to see the baby pail bunters, who will be used for 4H next year; from there it was on to the milking barns. 

This family farm doesn't use the high-tech, hands-off approach. Theo and his hired hands milk for two hours starting at 5 a.m., and again at 4 p.m. Their cows are healthy and well treated. 

We came across one noble red cow in her own large pen. 

"Remember the one red heifer you saw in the middle of all the blues?" asked Elize. "She is our one and only replacement heifer for this old red cow of ours... She has been a fantastic cow, and will get to live out her days here. She's our friend."

We went one barn over and were greeted by a frisky little "blue" calf. I cannot be sure why, but some black and white or grey speckledy cattle are called blue. They are invariably beautiful. 

"Here's the mum. She's a little distressed this afternoon. She knows something's up," commented Theo, patting her gently. "And now, here are the triplets!" 

The first one we had met came trotting back into his mother's huge pen to see what was going on. The littlest one lay close to her mummy. The third had snuck into the neighbour's pen and was snoozing.

"The two bigger ones are the bull calves and the little one is the girl, most likely a freemartin as I mentioned to you while we were discussing them." He got his cow over to the side of the pen and knelt in front of her to take off her collar and to say goodbye. "She's one of our best cows..." His voice trailed off. 

I was heartbroken for this man. I turned to Elize, standing next to me. "Why doesn't he just sell the calves and keep the cow?" 

She looked back at me, pain in her face too, and slowly she explained. 

"This is the second set of triplets we have had in the whole time we have had our operation. They are very special to us. They are all healthy. She loves all three of them and they all love each other. How could we possibly separate them? If we kept them here, the boys would end up in a feed lot. The girl would be no good to us. The cow would have no one. We want them to be together for as long as possible."

Immediately my mind went to that Bible story of old, of wise King Solomon who had to adjudicate in the case of the two mothers, one of whose baby had died. You know the story. The two devastated women stood in front of him, each claiming that the live baby was hers. 

"Give me my sword," said Solomon. "We will cut this live baby in half and each of you will get half."

One immediately agreed to the pronouncement as being fair and equitable. The other, sobbing, asked the king to reconsider and please give the baby to her rival. 

The king had his answer. 

Theo and Elize, in their own way, were doing the same thing as that mother: for love of their cow and her happiness, they were willing to give her up.

My eyes filled with tears and Elize was blinking hard.

Theo went to the office and brought back a piece of paper, carefully protected in a clear plastic sleeve. "Here are her papers," he said. "You had better have them now."

And suddenly we were the owners of a purebred Holstein cow and her three Belgian blue babies! Wynken and Blynken would be the boys' names and Nod the sweet little girl's. 

We loaded them into the GR's stock trailer, mum in the first compartment and three protesting babies into the middle compartment. One last pause to hand Elize a box of doughnuts we had picked up for them from Bloke's Bakery in Stettler - after all, dairy farmers should have the joy of tasting a cream john, shouldn't they?! - and we were on the road home.

As the GR drove, I started talking about a name for the mum. My connection to Holland, home of the dairy farmers, is that my Aunt Mabel married Henk and cares for him and their two Canadian-Dutch children and grandchildren with every fibre of her being.

"I think her name is Mabel," I suggested to the GR.

"Oh man," he replied with a grin. Henk is one of his favourite people anywhere.

"I wish that Wynken, Blynken and Nod could be connected to Holland in some way too. Maybe I should find better names," I fretted. I googled the names to discover their origin and picked Wikipedia as my source for the answer:

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod is a popular poem for children written by American writer and poet Eugene Field and published on March 9, 1889. The original title was "Dutch Lullaby". The poem is a fantasy bed-time story about three children sailing and fishing among the stars from a boat which is a wooden shoe. The names suggest a sleepy child's blinking eyes and nodding head. The spelling of the names, and the "wooden shoe," suggest Dutch language and names, as hinted in the original title

"I guess your first instincts for their names were right!" the GR laughed. 

And look at the name of the person who created a statue in their honour! " I shrieked.

(Wynken, Blynken and Nod by Mabel Landrum Torrey, 1918, formerly a fountain in Washington Park, Denver)

He crinkled his eyes at me. "I guess she's Mabel then!"

When we got home we ran the babies out, and Mabel followed, a bit shell-shocked by the ride, no doubt. The GR got W,B&N into the Palace with their new royal playmates, and led Mabel over to where there was hay and fresh water.

Then it was supper time at the Palace. We wondered how our four newest residents would do. The GR got all the babies sorted into their normal dining rooms, and put the three newbies into a vacant one. First he sent up good old Horns, mother of Princess Anne and adoptive mother of Phil. I closed the gate behind her.

In the pen next to them stood the three babies, unsure of themselves and their new surroundings.

"Here comes Mabel!" And up walked this beautiful, stately mother, straight into the middle of her little tribe.

She indulged herself with just one mouthful of dairy ration; and when her babies had still not moved, gave them a sharp, one-word command. 

They hustled then! 

The three of them crowded to one side, but with a little hip checking she got Nod out of the way of her big brothers. 

Two particularly sweet moments occurred: the first was a brief exchange between Horns and Mabel, a sort of "You're not alone in this" look.

 The second was when Nod went over to her mummy's head after she had finished eating.

Mabel tucked her girl under her chin and they stood there, quietly, while the boys scampered around them. 

Later that night, before we went to bed, we went to check on the Palace. All the residents were getting along well together. Mabel, Horns and Goldie were nearby, lowing softly at their babies. W,B&N were together.

This morning, look who was waiting to greet Mabel for breakfast! 

In a few days, when everyone is homed in and fully comfortable, mothers and babies will all be taken out to enjoy fresh, green grass. 

And - just like Elize and Theo hoped - Mabel, along with her triplets Wynken, Blynken and Nod, will be together for as long as they possibly can. 

Welcome to your new 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. 

Because I Choose To

It's getting close to midnight on this coldest of Valentine's days. The Good Rancher is out defrosting a frozen up waterer that his horses use. This morning he was up before the sun - all the waterers were frozen, and he had to do extra feeding today. Then came bedding - in weather like this, everyone gets straw to snuggle down into, even the grand old matriarchs of the herd. 

It has been like this all week. The weather was supposed to break a couple of days ago. Now the weather forecasters are talking maybe tomorrow, just like they have said since Thursday.

I went to church by myself and Pastor Walt and Roxie sang my song, accompanied by Sharalynn on the piano, her fingers weaving some of the sweetest harmonies I have ever heard:

After both services I headed home, fortified with a box of goodies from Roxie. The sky was bright blue, and you would be forgiven for thinking that the outside *must* have warmed up. 

Yup: -29 with a wind chill of -41. 

He didn't get in until just before 4 o'clock, his face burnt by the wind. I had asked him a couple of days earlier if we could go for brunch. 

Sorry. 

But it's our anniversary! 

The cows don't know it's our anniversary. 

Ahhhh...

I was eating leftovers from last night's quiet celebratory steak dinner. He had coffee and salad. Then he got up and handed me a bag from Lawlor's Jewelers in Stettler. It was the same bag I had picked up for him last week when I had to run in, the bag that had a stern warning on it, DO NOT OPEN BEFORE VALENTINE'S. 

Inside was a heart cradling an icy diamond and floating precariously on the most delicate chain.

He had taken the time, in the middle of the night, to go online and choose this for me. 

He had remembered our anniversary this year. 

It didn't feel so precarious this year.

A couple of months ago, when the familiar terror of not-being-good-enough threatened to swallow me, when the why-is-the-garbage-not-taken-out riff started to play in my head, when the why-can-he-not-stay-awake-for-a-conversation refrain started to repeat itself, God impressed upon my heart that I could control none of that. All I could control was me. 

A friend of mine was asked how he had kept his marriage together through three-plus decades shaped by illness and turmoil. 

"Because every morning, I choose to love," was his quiet response. 

And so I asked God to make me more sensitive to the Good Rancher, to seek out ways I could make his life easier. To choose, each day, to love. 

One week later, everything I had been fulminating about seemed to be resolving. 

Conversation ✔️

Inadequacy ✔️

Even garbage! ✔️

We were laughing together. He was starting my truck before he left for chores. We began drinking tea together in the evening as we watched the news. 

And it dawned on me that for the past seven years, when I have been so broken, so ragged, the Good Rancher has also been choosing all this time - in the midst of all his other responsibilities - to love. To love me. 

I recognised it when the little white gold heart, burnished through fiery trials, settled sideways into the hollow at the base of my throat like it had found its home. 

It's 12:17 midnight and he just came in. The water is boiling and I make two mugs of tea. "It was frozen EIGHT FEET DOWN, but the dogs and I finally got it thawed! 🎶Praise God from whom all BLESS-ings FLOWWWWWWW🎵!!" 

He settles into his recliner and sips his tea and eats a heart cookie from Roxie's box of goodies. It was a full anniversary meal in that box. Ah, well. The lasagna and French bread will keep for tomorrow. 

"This time seven years ago you were just finishing up helping your tea house kids do the dishes after the wedding reception," he recalls. 

"You should have bolted right then while you had the chance!" I retort. 

He grins. 

He turns on the TV and finds the news. He will be dozing before the second story. 

Today I broke a tooth munching popcorn on the way back from church, and I found a full box of contact lenses while looking for something else at home. You lose some, you win some. 

" Forty-nine years in dog years!" I whisper to Musket, Phoebe Snow, Earl Grey, Carly Simon and Gunpowder. 

It was a wonderful anniversary. 

Cookies from Roxie, mugs from Erin
Heart box from the GR

"Hey, Buddy"

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was his eye, half closed like he was almost asleep. He was lying on his side.

"Oh, my little Bartimaeus," I whispered; and for the first time, he never got up and trundled over to me.

The Good Rancher had been concerned about Bart when he went to feed Aiyo his late night bottle last night. Bart seemed ... listless. His breathing was fine, not the normal snuffly sounds we had become accustomed to. But he didn't come over for his regular belly scratch, and that was not the affectionate little fellow we were used to.

We had found out about Bart's love for a good belly scratch when The Kid showed up back in the fall.

The Kid had just finished up a job and was at a bit of a loose end. He chatted with the Good Rancher and they came to an understanding that there was some fencing to be done and open living quarters. The Kid would be welcome for three months to get a feel for the operation of the ranch, learn how to fence, and help out where he could.

The first afternoon he was on the job, we took him out to meet the bottle calves: Bull, Boots, and Bart.

We told him each of the calves' stories, and The Kid listened attentively. Then he walked over to  Blind Bartimaeus. I gave him a brief orientation as to Bart's odd way of latching on to the milk bottle nipple, then handed him the bottle.

The Kid cradled Bart's head between his leg and outside arm, and got the bottle in the vicinity of Bart's mouth.

"Hey, Buddy," he said gently. 

And wouldn't you know it — Bart settled right down and took the bottle, slurping its contents down with alacrity.

"I could feed them every day," The Kid volunteered. And from the next morning on, he was at the door three minutes before starting time, waiting for the bottles. He carried right on when 88 and Hey 19 were added to the little herd of orphans. But the one he loved was Bart.

I told The Kid to talk to Bart as much as he could: because of Bart's limited blurry vision, he would follow a voice he could recognise. So The Kid spoke with him, scratched his ears, gently rubbed his bloaty little sides and cared for him as well as I ever could have. Even on his day off, The Kid still showed up to feed the babies so that Bart would have consistency and no break in his routine.

And as he was approaching him, he always greeted him with, "Hey, Buddy!" 

The Kid quickly proved himself adept at driving the bale truck, fencing, helping to sort cattle and work gates and run stock up the alley. He would give 100% to any task that was assigned to him. He listened carefully, made a deliberate effort to get to know and help the neighbours, and was willing to do whatever it took to help the Good Rancher. He was a pleasure to have around and soon enough he and the GR had the conversation about staying on after Christmas. 

For his birthday, The Kid was presented with a bill of sale: for the sum of One Dollar plus Other Valuable Considerations, the transfer of ownership of Blind Bartimaeus, aka Bart, to The Kid was effected. 

The Kid took stewardship of his property seriously. He would pop over to see Bart at lunch time, and kept the GR apprised as to any health concerns. They would treat Bart when he seemed to be slumping and the little guy would rebound and be more loving and happy than ever. 

Then when he was home for Christmas The Kid sustained a serious accident to his eye.

His good eye. 

And we found out he had been born with a weak eye that had caused him some difficulties at times through his life. A few sports injuries had provided various degrees of head trauma. 

No wonder he understood Bart so well!

We promised that if he would just take good care of himself, we would take care of Bart for him till he could return. 

Plunging temperatures right at the time of little Aiyo's unexpected birth caused the tips of Bart's ears to freeze. Negotiations between the GR and his naggy spouse resulted in the two little animals being tenderly settled in the shop where they were fed, sheltered, exercised, and taken for walks and pen time outside on good days (Aiyo spends a good portion of each day with his mummy, who adores him but doesn't have enough sustenance for him).

Bart settled right in. He loved his grain and fresh water in the shop, and the mineral tubs and hay - not to mention other animals - in the pen just across the yard. He would trot back and forth, Aiyo following him, almost every day.

https://youtu.be/yGwUtNn06UE

Until yesterday. It was too cold for Bart to go outside, so he had the run of the shop. He was fine in the early afternoon; but something had changed by that evening.

I was reflecting this afternoon on some of the gifts Bart gave me over the last nine months.

He taught me perseverance. How hard it was, those first days, to get him used to taking the milk bottle! He did not give up, however. He would take little breaks where he would run the length of the pen, stopping only when he would bump into the fencing. He learnt when to stop and turn before too long, and would always trot back to the sound of my voice, screeching to a halt right in front of the bottle. 

He was friendly to everyone who came to visit him. He judged no one on their varying skill levels with the milk bottle. He was grateful for what he received and patient when some members of Team Bart were not quite as competent as others. He did his best and assumed everyone else did the same. 

He was resilient. He was brave. He was picked on by a couple of the playground pals, but he did what Mr Rogers told kids to do when they found themselves in difficulties: look for the helpers. He knew who would give him cover, and he learnt how to avoid the others. 

He liked his food and he loved his water. He would lap at it for hours. The GR ensured that he had fresh water twice a day, but not too much that he would get waterlogged! 

He was peaceable and loving and he spent a good portion of each day walking around, whether inside the calving barn, in the pen or in the shop. 

And he would always make his way to the voices of the humans who loved him. 

The GR went to check on him at about 1:30 this morning and he seemed to have perked up again. But when the GR went to scratch his belly, Bart just stood there, accepting the attention but not wriggling with his customary delight. 

At first light the GR headed over to the shop. 

And my phone rang. 

"He's gone. Little Bart's gone." My big tough Rancher's voice cracked. 

I made my way to the bathroom and flipped the page of my Choice Gleanings calendar to today's date. I am one who believes that God cares about all the things that His children care about. Look at the reading for today:

I dressed and made my way over to the shop. I quietly let myself in and gazed at his still, prone body and thought about how happy he made me when I could watch him running freely and joyously in between swallows of formula; how in tough times I could just go to him and rest my head on his back and he would stand motionless as my tears fell on his silvery hide; how he would always come to me whenever he heard my voice; the wonderful evening I finally heard HIS voice. I thought of the many people who have taken an interest in him and have been rooting for him, our little calf who never grew much above 300 lbs. 

Through my tears I noticed something I had never seen before. 

Blind Bartimaeus's eyes had always been sort of cloudy, a bit unfocused. 

But as he lay there, his eye half opened was luminous, a deep brown, sparkling. Like he was looking at something we couldn't see. 

And right then and there, I knew that I would never wish him back. 

My Bart was free.

I slowly reached for my phone and dialled The Kid. 

Angels In The Room

Somehow, he knew.

I was awakened extremely early this morning to the Good Rancher's shoulders shaking as he wept, almost in his sleep. On his Samsung pad were the hushed, joyful sounds of the song "Angels in the Room".

And he was praying for Ron. 

He has been there. In just a few days it will be eight years since he lost his wife of 25 years, his partner, his other half.

And so, prior to the breaking of the dawn, he was praying for his friend Ron.

This morning we received the message, through Ron, from their daughter Sandy that we were anticipating, the message we were praying for, the message we were dreading:

"Late last night, with my Dad, my brothers and I around her bedside; Mom went home to Jesus. 

We watched my mom suffer for a long time, she showed us everyday that:

Pain + Thankfulness, 

Suffering + Joy, 

Grief + Hope; with Jesus, these things coexist together. We wept and we laughed and then we all said goodbye. This is the journey we will walk until we see her face again. 🌹"

Now we who are left mourn. Now we rejoice.

Oh Ron. We glory with you and we weep with you. I think I told you this before, but a wise old pastor told my Dad at my Mum's funeral, "She is with God. And God is with us. So she's not very far away..."

But what a chasm is that infinitesimal distance today! 

Oh, Sweet Jane.