Fire Insurance

An exceptional feed year, the grass is thick and a couple of weeks from ripening and turning brown as we prepare to wean our calves for market.  It’s been our custom to cut firebreaks with the skid steer between our feed and Dry Creek Road.  Last year we had eight arson sets that we were able to minimize with our 500 gallon water wagon.  Fortunately, CalFire was able to identify and arrest the arsonists who are now in jail.

 

Despite our efforts and equipment, the ranch gets no discount for fire insurance premiums. Since PG&E was found culpable for the Northern California fires several years ago, we have found ourselves within the recently mapped High Risk Fire Area in California, and most all our neighbors have been dropped by insurance carriers. It seems apparent that PG&E’s losses and premiums have been spread out over the state. We are now investigating self-insurance for our home.

 

As a matter of business, insurance companies insure one another for catastrophic losses, and taken to the extreme, may in fact be one insurance company.  Last year our insurance costs were 10% of our expenses, but unlike our other tangible expenses like hay and labor, we get only a little peace of mind in return at twice the price, if available.

 

 

MOONSTONE BEACH, END OF THE TRAIL

 

No lone warriors left on weary ponies,

we gather at the edge of the West subdued

and yield to the fleeting moment beyond

our reach or reason—to be washed,

wave after wave, with our fears away.

 

All the people now in the picture—

I could have cropped the photo

to thirty-thousand yesteryears ago,

or by much shorter measure dialed it

to a certain future none will see.

 

Our hair is gray.

 

 

BONE ON BONE

 

All the places

I worked and played

too hard

are wearing on me

 

for this moment

I have trailed

with discarded rhymes

and poetry

 

even I don’t quite

understand

why I had to kiss

the wild so deeply,

 

why I had to walk

the fence

and dream beyond

the barbed wire.

 

 

 

 

CELEBRATION OF LIFE

 

Occasionally, neighbors become good friends,

and so it’s been with Steve and Jody Fuller, Robbin and I.

 

I am going to read a short poem that I wrote for them

when my mother was dying in the hospital back in 2010.

 

 

 

LAST NIGHT’S LEFTOVERS

 

We pray for heart attacks, Mack trucks and lightening

as our way out, trading tales of die-hard mothers

like rattlesnake stories, each triggering another –

 

pouring wine with whiskey rants to laugh

at the sad truth we can’t improve, can’t make easier,

can’t change, but in ourselves.  Out of the rain,

 

my great bay horse, a bag of bones at thirty,

paws the gate in the barn for more grain – an indignant

impatience I trained for years, my mother’s hands

 

in mine again. It’s rained five days straight,

blew the barn down, blew a tire in a rockslide,

got a ticket parked too long at the hospital,

 

and we look up into the gray wanting to escape

town and traffic, find home and recuperate

with neighbors and last night’s leftovers.

 

                                                – for Steve & Jody

 

 

 

Steve left his mark on the hearts of us all.

JOINT ACCOUNTS

 

Yesterday’s rain

runs in rivulets

towards the creek

 

across the shoulder

of the road

and growing traffic—

 

Pond Turtle shell

glistening still

with all the wild

 

totems we lay claim to

in our joint accounts.

 

SURPRISE RAIN

Mud from head to toe
before the bus to school,
how could I know

I’d never bring it home—
never be the hero
of black and white westerns.

But a lifetime chasing rainbows
has been enough
without the pot of gold.



WAITING ON A BLUE EVENING

 

Despite the advance of new scientific instruments utilized for weather modeling, this year’s  Atmospheric River phenomenon for Central California hasn’t followed predictions.  However, we have enjoyed beautiful weather and average rainfall standing currently at 10 inches with March and April yet to go.  Last summer seemed cooler, fall and winter warmer with yesterday’s high reaching 71 degrees.

 

Robbin snapped this photo about the time the deluge was forecast to arrive yesterday evening, but it didn’t start raining until 3:00 this morning. I love the rainy days, almost always smug when the experts are wrong.

 

BODY BURNING DETAIL

 

                  Arms shrunk to seal flippers

                  Charred buttocks thrust skyward

                  They burned for five days.

                                    – Bill Jones (“The Body Burning Detail”)

 

The tangle of limbs piled

like Bill’s poem from Nam,

oak skeletons and cadavers

 

turned hard and brittle

ache from drought,

rings parched of memory,

 

native history become ash

up in smoke. Perhaps my years

personify the tree, allow

 

empathy for these witnesses

to wild centuries before the West

was tamed, offering acorn meal

 

and shade for cattle,

ever-tuned to the telepathic

as they chew their cuds.

 

 

REVISITING RIP VAN WINKLE

 

Flash after flash above

a steely barrage of pellets—

an opaque torrent of gray rain

 

cut by the crack of thunder

as if the gods were falling timber

or sawing logs—

 

or just inebriated

in the mountains

playing nine pins.

 

 

MOM AND POP GROCERY

 

                                  How I wish to sail away in my little skiff
                                  And high on the waters, live out the rest of my life.

                                                 – Su Tung-p’o (“Immortal at the River”)

 

 

Harold and Nellie kept accounts of all the local

farmhands in a shoebox, cashed their checks

and paid their bills on Saturdays,

 

the balance spent behind the neon blue

Burgie sign in the dark-half of the store—

worn men glancing-out into the blinding light

 

at the wagonload of soda pop bottles

we gleaned from weeds along the road

to trade for Cokes and candy.

 

They offered ‘Flying A’ gasoline before

they moved the grocery to the Yokohl

when they widened the highway,

 

keeping busy into old age until

a week after Harold retired

to his skiff on high waters.