Friends at the Ranch
Long ago, before I owned a ranch, I asked a rancher how he got his work done while entertaining guests who were visiting.
He said he does what he always does and brings them along.
No special treatment for special people because they just want to live ranch life for a few days.
It’s easy to forget that ranch life is exceptional.
Especially when the fence is down, the washing machine thunks, and the worms have escaped from their bins.
Still, I hold on to that rancher’s advice.
It reminds me to appreciate how fortunate I am and it gives me an excuse when my wonderful friend I’ve known since junior high flies in to spend the weekend with me.
Poor Shelley.
My to-do list for her visit was longer than daylight hours in mid-June.
Shelley has seen me at my worst so I don’t have any qualms about showing off my imperfections.
It’s a good thing.
Our first job was to move the old, non-functional washer out of the basement and bring the new one in.
Washers are hefty and basement steps are steep.
I didn’t want to kill my friend on the first day of her visit so I stood below the washer while Shelley and my daughter, Abby, scooted the loaded dolly down each step, one cumbersome thump at a time.
Shelley’s back might hurt, but she didn’t get smashed by a freewheeling washer.
A washer that has been waiting to be used in the garage has housed a few mice.
Mice and mouse skeletons can wreak havoc on wiring.
So we scooped out the disgusting rinse water that wouldn’t drain and took the washer apart.
The new sensor should be here this week.
Next, I needed to fill a hole in the yard so the predicted rain wouldn’t drain toward the house.
The hole was there because the plumber had to dig up my septic system last week.
I figured flushing the toilet was more important than a manicured lawn.
Besides, I didn’t have a manicured lawn anyway.
After hauling 14 heavy buckets of dirt, we decided we didn’t need a trip to the gym.
Meat customers have been asking for sweetbreads so I have some, but I had never tasted them.
Sweetbreads are from the thymus gland, with a texture similar to rocky mountain oysters.
Into the frying pan they went.
After a few samples, we decided we probably wouldn’t eat all of my profits.
My orphan lambs are growing and need to learn to eat creep feed, but unlike adventurous friends who have never tried sweetbreads, lambs won’t eat unfamiliar food.
Shelley and I broke pretzels with the familiar salty flavor into the length of the creep pellets and force-fed each unwilling lamb. Then we fed the now-familiar shape of the pellets to each individual lamb.
We felt like Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller when a lamb suddenly realized that the pellet was yummy and wanted more.
Before the weekend ended, Shelley herded a ewe with an unexpected newborn lamb to the barn, chased a pair of coyotes away from the flock, scraped flaking paint from my garage in anticipation of repainting, hauled yearlings to summer pasture, evaluated the progress of a remodeling job in Conrad, pulled out of the driveway at 5:45 am to sell meat at the weekly farmers market, watched a rodeo and admired a nest of baby hawks.
And we shared our lives, remembering a few of the times Shelley rescued me -- like when I got lost in a mall in Los Angeles and leaving her family at Easter to help when my brother was killed.
Because that’s what fortunate friends do at the ranch.