Just Cull Ewes

I hauled yet another load of ewes to the auction the other day.

My grass is short. So is my hay.

Typically, hay costs twice as much as pasture.

This year hay costs five times as much.

Buying hay this year makes as much sense to me as buying a Lamborghini and driving it down the gravel road to my ranch.

So most of my ewes are going to Taco Bell.

When I stepped out of the truck to unload them, the auction attendant asked “Just cull ewes?”

I started to nod.

Then I found myself pausing.

I lifted my hat from my head to think.

This hat I wore came to me when my mom and I floated the Grand Canyon 11 years ago to celebrate our birthdays.

The hat that replaced the one that disappeared when I almost flew out of the raft while navigating some monster waves.

The trip that introduced me to a guide who brought a friend to visit and instigated a romance that now includes a thriving family of five.

It’s more than just a hat.

Just. As in not enough.

Just. As in insignificant.

Just as in “just one?” for dining in a restaurant, hardly worth the time and effort.

Cull.

Cull. As in used up.

Cull. As in worthless.

Ewes. As in those who nurture and protect their lambs with every tool they can muster, despite their lack of defenses.

I watch a white ewe named Patches step hesitantly off the trailer.

Patches, named for the black spots around both eyes, was born soaking wet during a 13-day cold snap, when the temperature never rose above 0 degrees and I worked around the clock to help new mothers keep their newborns warm and fed.

Patches found a way to survive and thrive, becoming a better mother than I ever will be.

Patches makes me laugh when I see her in the spring pasture, grazing contentedly.

Invariably, suddenly she will remember her twins, raise her head and bleat in a panic.

She trots in a widening circle, calling and searching, until she finds her napping lambs about 20 yards away.

Then her head drops to graze the green grass again.

Patches is an icon of resilience and responsibility.

She is anything and everything except insignificant and worthless.

I watch a group of ewes born in 2017 follow Patches out the trailer door.

They are in the prime of their life and raise strong, healthy, huge lambs.

They are not used up.

I tagged these ewes the day my husband, Steve, died.

We had just finished sorting and choosing these ewe lambs that would become the heart of my flock when word came that he was lying in the middle of the county road.

Those ewes represent the day my life changed forever.

Selling them feels like the end all over again.

They are anything and everything except insignificant and worthless.

I watch more ewes follow the 2017 ewes and think about their lambs.

Their lambs provide healthy, tasty meals for families and restaurant diners.

These meals are often the center of celebrations – accomplishments, holidays and parties.

These lambs provide the ingredients for a restaurant owner who was nominated for a James Beard Award this year.

The mission of the non-profit James Beard Awards is to recognize exceptional talent and achievement in the culinary arts.

I am so proud of the local chef who earned that nomination.

These ewes raise lambs that are anything and everything except insignificant and worthless.

I pulled my Grand Canyon hat down on my head and looked at the auction attendant.

No, there’s nothing Just about these ewes.

There’s nothing Just about what I must do to them.