Contrasts of Spring in a Drought

Green grass is poking up. I watch it grow every day.

Sun warms my shoulders. For the first time in a very long time, I am not cold.

My cheeks that were ravaged by bone-chilling wind just 30 days ago feel the soft touch of a spring breeze.

My horse rocks me as if I am in a cradle as we check for new calves.

The calf I tagged yesterday trots next to his mother as she meanders toward the hay I fed.

He will curl into the quilt of hay, snoozing in the sunshine.

The weather during this calving season has been gorgeous, making my job far easier than it was a couple of years ago when the calving crew dug newborns out of snowdrifts and pulled drowning babies from fast-flowing creeks.

But the grass pokes up through dust.

Spring breezes suck moisture from deep in the soil.

I feed hay made of gold and sacrifice one pasture in a feeble attempt to let grass grow in others, knowing it won’t be nearly enough unless rain comes.

I watch new calves bucking and jumping next to mamas that will be sold because I won’t be able to feed them.

Deep in my bones, I feel scarcity during the plentiful season of rebirth

I am surrounded by healthy cows, sheep and horses, yet feel helpless to care for them.

I find myself searching for drops of joy when it should be overflowing

My survival strategy is to scramble for control when I have none.

I plan to sell about half of my cows and ewes. Maybe more.

It’s the only way I can protect my land.

I decide to keep the cows that calve first and sell the back half.

I’ll do the same for the ewes.

Cattle and sheep prices are good right now if you don’t factor in the parallel rise in input prices. Hopefully, they remain good.

My decision to sell half of my herd and flock will impact my ability to pay bills for at least three or four years.

After all, ranching finances don’t rebound like widget-manufacturing finances do.

In the face of rampant inflation, I’m not sure how to budget for overhead and rebuilding my herd.

At the same time, the local school board is asking taxpayers to approve $20 million for shiny new toys. They argue that it is cheaper to build now than later.

Their request feels like a dismissive slap in the face -- as if I don’t support the ideals of education if I don’t vote for their request.

Unlike ranchers, every member of the school board earns a salary. Two members own service businesses, able to raise their price for services at a whim. One is married to a farmer so she should know better than to ask for more money now.

My resentment grows because I do, in fact, cherish high-quality education.

I donate to scholarships.

I host an apprentice and workshops.

I support young adults who choose either college or a trade.

I argue vehemently that students should have opportunities to use a variety of styles to learn and the choice to learn at their own pace.

In fact, some might argue that they have heard my sermon on education so often that they can recite it verbatim.

I feel alone and misunderstood as I stand in my dusty pasture.

On a whim, I join a ranchers discussion group on Zoom.

Others talk about the devastating drought and their feeble plans gone awry.

Their faces disclose what their words can’t say.

I am not alone or misunderstood after all.

I had no idea I need others so much.

I bet they vote against their school levies, too.