The sound of a cherry
wood grandfather clock is ticking and I imagine it in my half sleep with its
ripe and freshly lacquered wood. "It's time to wake up son," it
says and opening my eyes I see grandpa standing over me. Making a
dampened exasperation I roll out of bed and stand. Dressing in jeans, a
knit shirt and boots gives him enough time to prepare the toast and coffee and
we sit together in silence wading through the tasks of our day. The sound
of his boot scuffs to stamp and standing he draws the last swig from
his cup. I stand and put on gloves and a thick cloth coat with a treated
leather shell.'
The morning air presses crisp like the crunch of snow against my face. I see the sun blinking through the shedding trees on the low mountain over the pastures of our narrow valley. Like a sleeping serpent the dark river looks motionless weaved between the shrubby banks. An evergreen wind presses itself against the dry branches and the colored leaves. Grandpa breaths through his nose filling his old lungs completely. I, still watching the sun and feeling the heat of its frayed rays, am glad just to move and have work. "God," grandpa says aloud, "we are grateful for your sun, we are grateful for your land and we are grateful for your work. Amen."
I tend the chickens, feed the horses, change some water, scoop manure, and think of prayer and things my father said. "It's important to pray. Besides you'll find yourself doing it anyways." He didn't pray to God, though, like grandfather does. "Every moment." he said, "you are beginning and you'll shed your light. You will make decisions and you'll wonder if you've made the right ones. There is so much out there. . ., you will have enough. In fact," and I remember him turning his blue eyes and wrinkling their corners with a smile, "you will have more than enough."
Another cold morning catches me wondering. The sun finds its place behind a great cumulus cloud and I shiver. The weather will remain fair for a day, at least. Some fortune there. The few calves battling pneumonia are most of what we have. Any storm will extend their struggle or kill them. Winter is coming to lock us in and demand our patience. I feel anxious.
Grandpa stands over a calf and a blanket lain wheelbarrow below in the green pasture. His white head glows over his thick shirt, boots and bowlegged jeans. I imagine the way his body rests on those old bones with his heart still pressing over them. Well dressed, tan and standing under the vibrant sun he hardly looks sixty let alone seventy. He turns his scruffy face with its coarse curls of white running from his cheeks to his weathered neck and all his soft wrinkles show in a little smile. I look into his dark eyes and see a faint glimmer next to the sun's reflection. I am able only then to count every one of his years. Too me he seems infinite.
"Let's take her up," he says. I squat, turn her head and body and place my hands under her shoulders while grandpa grabs her hind hooves. I feel her in my palms strong boned, especially hot and having fur like a dampened field of wheat. Without a word she's lifted up into a padded wheelbarrow. The wind presses itself again up our narrow valley, rustling the leaves and sending a chill down my spine. Grandpa points his nose like a hound towards the canyon mouth. He takes an urgent breath and holds it. Letting it go he licks his lips and turns to me. “Ah, my good boy, God sends his omen now and he is telling you to breathe deep. Instead you stand breathless with your mouth hung open. Are you worried about something boy?”
“Only the cattle,” I say. After putting on my leather gloves I go ahead with the calf. Grasping the handles I say, “Here we go little one,” and turn it around. Starting, I cross the small valley floor towards its higher wall and a fair climb up the side hill where grandpa built our house, small stables and a chicken coop. The hill is lightly wooded with pines and aspen concealing the structures behind them. A well used path, clear of boulders and large rocks, makes a wide ‘S’ in the hill side. Otherwise, it is covered with yellowing bushes and grasses, mossy boulders and a few gaunt reaches of a tree.
I begin up the path and put my strength into my arms, shoulders and across my chest. I press my boots against the dry earth and my calves immediately burn. I focus on the stability of the wheelbarrow and press myself past the first curve of the path. One of three, I think, and two to go. I drop my head grunting from the sun. The calf lies placid with its eyes open and its chin dropped into its chest. I get the feeling she won’t make it, that she might already be dead and I am just pushing this last calf to its grave. I strain out another forceful grunt, my jaw tightens and pressing hard into my heart it beats more rapidly.
Around the second curve I see grandpa again, illuminated on the valley floor between the shadows of clouds. He stands with our two cows laying his hand on one’s back. She’ll be the one that makes us over the winter. Leaning, he brushes her face. Lifting slowly, he pats her back again and looks towards me. Illuminated in this last pure pasture, he gently holds a beast God created for man. Always, I remember him nurturing the livestock. "They give back," he says.
Rounding the last curve I drop my chin and reinforce my arms knowing next is the steepest slope. I run. My calves re-inflame after having grown dull. Pushing up the slope I feel on them a drop of rain. I cannot decide if the wetness came from strain or if from a cloud. Over lungs which heave I lift my head to see the softening grade and the grass which roll over the crest. Above the sky . . . I slow my pace and catch my breath. The calf has closed its eyes, and we roll past a few wiry aspen. I take her past our small cabin and to the stables between the pines.
Setting:description (grandpa's house)
One horse, Wind, waits in his bay and lets out a whinny as he hears our approach. Not long before my father left he gave me this gray stallion. He has black spots covering his face and a dark mane. His body has brown blemishes and highlights of whites. Above his dark hooves he is espresso in color just past the thin part of his leg. He looks like a stone set in the earth. He is powerful, robust and resolute. Behind Wind, I see our other horse, Muddy, Wind’s older sister approaching from the low slope.
Letting the wheelbarrow down I approach him. Stroking the hard bones above his eyes I say, “Man alive . . . I’m anxious, you know? I’ve got to get out of here but I can’t. Grandpa needs me here and it’s too damn crazy out there anyway. What would we do, Wind? Hide in the mountains?" I pause and look back towards the calf. "Not now, especially, when we can’t outrun the snow. He listens well, breathes steady and moves again only after I take my hand from him.
* * *
The radio is playing when I arrive.
The morning air presses crisp like the crunch of snow against my face. I see the sun blinking through the shedding trees on the low mountain over the pastures of our narrow valley. Like a sleeping serpent the dark river looks motionless weaved between the shrubby banks. An evergreen wind presses itself against the dry branches and the colored leaves. Grandpa breaths through his nose filling his old lungs completely. I, still watching the sun and feeling the heat of its frayed rays, am glad just to move and have work. "God," grandpa says aloud, "we are grateful for your sun, we are grateful for your land and we are grateful for your work. Amen."
I tend the chickens, feed the horses, change some water, scoop manure, and think of prayer and things my father said. "It's important to pray. Besides you'll find yourself doing it anyways." He didn't pray to God, though, like grandfather does. "Every moment." he said, "you are beginning and you'll shed your light. You will make decisions and you'll wonder if you've made the right ones. There is so much out there. . ., you will have enough. In fact," and I remember him turning his blue eyes and wrinkling their corners with a smile, "you will have more than enough."
Another cold morning catches me wondering. The sun finds its place behind a great cumulus cloud and I shiver. The weather will remain fair for a day, at least. Some fortune there. The few calves battling pneumonia are most of what we have. Any storm will extend their struggle or kill them. Winter is coming to lock us in and demand our patience. I feel anxious.
Grandpa stands over a calf and a blanket lain wheelbarrow below in the green pasture. His white head glows over his thick shirt, boots and bowlegged jeans. I imagine the way his body rests on those old bones with his heart still pressing over them. Well dressed, tan and standing under the vibrant sun he hardly looks sixty let alone seventy. He turns his scruffy face with its coarse curls of white running from his cheeks to his weathered neck and all his soft wrinkles show in a little smile. I look into his dark eyes and see a faint glimmer next to the sun's reflection. I am able only then to count every one of his years. Too me he seems infinite.
"Let's take her up," he says. I squat, turn her head and body and place my hands under her shoulders while grandpa grabs her hind hooves. I feel her in my palms strong boned, especially hot and having fur like a dampened field of wheat. Without a word she's lifted up into a padded wheelbarrow. The wind presses itself again up our narrow valley, rustling the leaves and sending a chill down my spine. Grandpa points his nose like a hound towards the canyon mouth. He takes an urgent breath and holds it. Letting it go he licks his lips and turns to me. “Ah, my good boy, God sends his omen now and he is telling you to breathe deep. Instead you stand breathless with your mouth hung open. Are you worried about something boy?”
“Only the cattle,” I say. After putting on my leather gloves I go ahead with the calf. Grasping the handles I say, “Here we go little one,” and turn it around. Starting, I cross the small valley floor towards its higher wall and a fair climb up the side hill where grandpa built our house, small stables and a chicken coop. The hill is lightly wooded with pines and aspen concealing the structures behind them. A well used path, clear of boulders and large rocks, makes a wide ‘S’ in the hill side. Otherwise, it is covered with yellowing bushes and grasses, mossy boulders and a few gaunt reaches of a tree.
I begin up the path and put my strength into my arms, shoulders and across my chest. I press my boots against the dry earth and my calves immediately burn. I focus on the stability of the wheelbarrow and press myself past the first curve of the path. One of three, I think, and two to go. I drop my head grunting from the sun. The calf lies placid with its eyes open and its chin dropped into its chest. I get the feeling she won’t make it, that she might already be dead and I am just pushing this last calf to its grave. I strain out another forceful grunt, my jaw tightens and pressing hard into my heart it beats more rapidly.
Around the second curve I see grandpa again, illuminated on the valley floor between the shadows of clouds. He stands with our two cows laying his hand on one’s back. She’ll be the one that makes us over the winter. Leaning, he brushes her face. Lifting slowly, he pats her back again and looks towards me. Illuminated in this last pure pasture, he gently holds a beast God created for man. Always, I remember him nurturing the livestock. "They give back," he says.
Rounding the last curve I drop my chin and reinforce my arms knowing next is the steepest slope. I run. My calves re-inflame after having grown dull. Pushing up the slope I feel on them a drop of rain. I cannot decide if the wetness came from strain or if from a cloud. Over lungs which heave I lift my head to see the softening grade and the grass which roll over the crest. Above the sky . . . I slow my pace and catch my breath. The calf has closed its eyes, and we roll past a few wiry aspen. I take her past our small cabin and to the stables between the pines.
Setting:description (grandpa's house)
One horse, Wind, waits in his bay and lets out a whinny as he hears our approach. Not long before my father left he gave me this gray stallion. He has black spots covering his face and a dark mane. His body has brown blemishes and highlights of whites. Above his dark hooves he is espresso in color just past the thin part of his leg. He looks like a stone set in the earth. He is powerful, robust and resolute. Behind Wind, I see our other horse, Muddy, Wind’s older sister approaching from the low slope.
Letting the wheelbarrow down I approach him. Stroking the hard bones above his eyes I say, “Man alive . . . I’m anxious, you know? I’ve got to get out of here but I can’t. Grandpa needs me here and it’s too damn crazy out there anyway. What would we do, Wind? Hide in the mountains?" I pause and look back towards the calf. "Not now, especially, when we can’t outrun the snow. He listens well, breathes steady and moves again only after I take my hand from him.
* * *
The radio is playing when I arrive.