Tag Archives: Dry Creek

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.

 

 

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.



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.

 

 

CRUSADES

 

Caravans of SUVs, militarily spaced in case one gets lost,

race up our pocked-marked and decomposing mountain road

on Fridays to Hartland and Hume Lake Christian camps

to thin, clean air and worship exposed to cedars and pines

only to return Sunday afternoons as if God were driving

 

irresponsibly—an ascension of modern day crusaders

sprinting with a gang of jeeps, retrofitted for climbing rocks

and spinning hookers in the melting snow, the whir

and hum of mud-grips from miles below. Always

casualties, strapped to the backs of tow trucks home.

 

RIDGELINE

 

A bustling world of change

with all its shenanigans beyond

the renewed green after rain,

 

beyond the ridgeline that has stayed

the same for a thousand lifetimes,

ever since Tro’khud, the Eagle

 

and Wee-hay’-sit, the Mountain Lion

shaped a body from clay

and baked it in the house of tules

 

they had set afire. Then put a piece

of him in a basket and set it beside

Sho-no’-yoo spring to become his mate.

 

They made mistakes like paws for hands

they had to change—but for a moment

they were safe this side of the ridge.

 

 

HAPPY NEW YEAR

 

I’s been a great week between Christmas and New Years with Robbin’s brother Joe here to help out cutting wood, splitting oak, hanging gates, cleaning-up the Horehound, Turkey Mullein and tumbleweeds along the driveway, not to mention vehicle maintenance while getting 0.34″ slow rain that has revitalized our green.  We’ve taken time-out around the BBQ fire pit with Bloody Mary’s and a Mexican Coffee to celebrate our accomplishments.

 

Though I would have liked the rain to come a month earlier, the weather’s been perfect, rain spaced well with warm temperatures as the canyon has turned from blond dry feed to green.  The cows and calves have moved to the softened ground uphill to get a bite of both as we watch the virgin Red Angus bulls, close-by, fumbled their way to breeding postures.  As Robbin quips, “It’s a wonder we get any calves at all.” 

This is what we work for, an uncertain future, and wish you all a joyful 2024 !!

SLEEPING BEES

 

A bower for sleeping bees,

the ground begs softly

beneath the burning trees

to foster cotyledons

and change the canyon green.

 

No cars on the road,

silence weighs heavily,

not a bird or bull’s bawl

to claim the open space

that’s come alive.

 

The gray sky witness

floats in a cloud-fog

damp and undemanding

as the long pause of winter

moves into a new beginning.