Dilated and making bag,
first-calf heifers choose to graze,
closer to our familiar voices
over morning coffee. Perhaps security,
or our loving pride they feel
long distance as we imagine
a pasture full of calves clinging
to a mother’s shadow, the buck and run
as they get older like the thirty years
before them. We begin another season
of grass with rain, with feeding hay
ready to face the future with them.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, Calving, family, first-calf heifers, photography, poetry
We kids would perch upon the shingle shed roof where my grandfather would dry his few errant Tompson Seedless for raisins from his Emperor vineyard outside Exeter, California, careful not to snag our swim trunks on the nails to watch the July 4th fireworks show in town—a perfect ending to family picnics celebrating Independence Day after World War II, a time when our nation’s history was rich with common sense. The lack of it today cannot be blamed on Climate Change.
The majority of California has been identified as a High Risk Fire Area while insurance companies have raised premiums to offset theirs, and PG&E’s, losses in Northern California during 2018’s continuous conflagrations. Today, fire insurance is either cost prohibitive or unavailable to homeowners and businesses that has impacted home loans and values, and subsequently the State’s economy. While fire fighters risk their lives to keep wildfires contained to protect these interests, we’re still selling fireworks even though the State’s population has more than tripled since 1955 to a more urban population that has little hands-on experience. The Emergency Rooms are proof enough.
California has many problems as people and businesses leave the State—new taxation annually and a Governor who can’t decide what he stands for as he heads to Washington to bolster Biden’s nomination, and should he fail, make himself visible and available.
It’s time for the non-profit service organizations, churches, Boy Scouts, etc. to stop selling fireworks as fund raisers, stop adding to the costs of our communities and look into drone shows or other means to celebrate Independence Day, it’s time to outlaw fireworks.
Posted in Ranch Journal
Tagged 4TH of July, California, common-sense, common-sense, family, firework, FIREWORKS, independence-day, insurance-companies
After peeking beneath the eve,
the sun dives south beyond the ridge
near the Solstice. Time’s quick departure
into darkness begs moments stolen
around a fire, glass of wine,
2-for-the-price-one thin tri-tips
browning above hardy Manzanita coals
flicking blue and yellow tongues
into our eyes to clear them—
like standing in a gate opened
to a pasture of possibilities
yet ungrazed at this late date.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged basic elements, camaraderie, clarity, family, photography, poetry
Fresh-picked fruit waiting for family, friends and rain to arrive. 1.30″
Like quail before a rain, like deer
we gather in the granite brush
that yet survives the times and us—
around a fire. Lift a water glass
to the first ones here, a jam jar to
the pioneers that spawned this bond
of swirling smoke we nose at dawn
within our clothes and grin, trying:
to remember when
we loved life, or one another more.
Four straight nights of family making music. Grandpa’s done!
(Photos: Neal Lett, brother Todd’s daughter Katy’s husband, OMG!)
A light caress reminder
after a long time gone,
slow wet promises of more—
of fidelity we believe
as if she never left,
our flesh blooms green.
Christmas fell in 2015
to fill four nights rejoicing,
strings and voices rising
to greet the gentle rain—
four dry years forgotten.
We’ll never be the same.
Overnight rain, wind, hail and a light dusting of snow down to 2,000 feet for our Christmas present on Dry Creek. Fairly rare, especially during the last four years.
Whole family here jamming into the late night hours (10:00 p.m., 3 hours past my bedtime), Robbin and Bob with guitars, Jaro and I with harmonicas, all singing what lyrics we knew.
All good, beautiful morning, Christmas 2015!
Bagels and lochs on the deck.
A beautiful day Friday, I took my camera while checking the calves we branded, photographing this one resting comfortably in a bed of mustard greens, along with the gray cow and calf born late September.
We’re taking the whole bunch back to Belle Point this morning after a slow 0.30″ rain yesterday afternoon and overnight–the same rain we raced yesterday morning while branding Tony Rabb’s calves just over the ridge in Antelope Valley.
Forecast for 8:00 a.m. up until the last moment, skies were clear at daybreak as the storm approached from the coast. Tony made the call and we hustled through 100 calves before the first drop landed at 11:30 a.m.
I note, not so much for posterity but to jog my failing memory, that we had a lot of fun at the quickened pace, far from ‘old people slow’. My first opportunity to help the neighbors brand this season, I took Bart, Robbin’s wonderful gelding, who worked well-enough to have some fun himself, a tough little horse hard not to like.
I also found the Burrowing Owl in his digs Friday while checking the heifers just recently exposed to Wagyu bulls. The first wave of family arrives today. ‘Tis the season.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Bart, Belle Point, branding, Burrowing Owl, family, mustard, neighbors, rain, Tony Rabb, Wagyu
First thing every morning
I think of you making coffee
San Francisco strong, and pray
that a few of our wild gods
go with you on city sidewalks.
I fill the paper filter
that holds the grounds together
with one less scoop than you,
then add a half
to remember you by.
Colder in the old days, we lit smudge pots—
met New Year’s Eve with the all-night roar
of wind machines to stir the air, save
an orange crop bound by sentries, plumes
of flame down every road and dirt avenue—
starlight twinkling madly in a black sky.
Up on the hour to check the temperature,
Dad slept on the wood floor by the fire—
wool sweater, reek of diesel, ready to rise
while we dreamed of what we missed
in the country—like Mom’s new dress,
the festivities and friends in Visalia.
She learned not to cry, let disappointment
spill so easily, especially onto others—
a farmer’s daughter, a farmer’s wife.
for Mom
Posted in Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged agriculture, citrus, family, farmer, poetry, rural, smudge pots, urban, weather, wind machines
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