Mini Memoir: My Dad Saddling a Horse

By the time I was five, I was riding some old ranch horse around the yard. When I was in first grade and we lived on the Seventy-One Ranch, I remember many days taking off on my own. By the time I was in sixth grade, I could saddle a horse myself. Before then, my dad would do it for me. Although he has been dead for many years, I think of my father with love, gratitude, and good memories, especially of those ranch years. One of my favorites is the memory of watching him saddle a horse for me.

I see him with the curry comb in his hand. I hear it scratch against the horse’s hide, and the slightly different sound as he combs the mane and tail. He brushes the horse’s back, reaches under the belly, softly crooning, “Whoa, boy. Easy now.” I hear his voice cautioning me not to brush the tender wedge of the horse’s withers. The horse might kick.

He throws on a blanket, releasing a whiff of horse sweat, smoothes and evens it, because another blanket will go on top, a fancier one. Somehow I know that he must smooth the blankets because a wrinkle could wear a sore on the horse’s back. Yet I don’t remember him saying this to me. Other than reminding me not to brush the withers, or, when I was very young, not to stand right behind even the gentlest horse, I don’t remember him lecturing me on how to saddle a horse. I think he knew that if he saddled a horse with care, attention, and love, then I would, too, when my time came.

He gracefully heaves the saddle onto the horse, the right stirrup hooked over the horn. He reaches up, lets down the stirrup and the cinch; sometimes the horse jumps a bit. When he reaches under the horse to grab the cinch, I think he is brave. I love the narrow leather cinch strap that he loops around and around, finally folding it through the brass buckle and giving it a firm tug.

I watch him undo the halter and buckle it around the horse’s neck, take the bridle and, with his left hand, guide it into the horse’s mouth, placing the strap around the horse’s left ear. I hear the rattling of the bit as the horse adjusts it in his mouth.

He walks the horse around the yard for a couple of minutes, maybe handing me the reins to do that job, which is to get air out of the horse’s stomach. He puts his hand under the cinch, feels the slack, and then tightens it.

He ties the reins in a knot, lifts them over the horse’s ears, and rests them on the saddle horn. The horse is still tied by the halter rope to the hitching rack.

Except when I was very young, he never helped me get on a horse. That was my job. I remember leading the horse to a rock, a hay bale, or even maneuvering the horse close enough to a corral fence so I can slide onto the saddle from the top rail. I am ready to go on my own, into blue skies and sage-covered hills of a Nevada morning. I like to think he watches me with love as I leave the yard.

Mini-Memoir: Ranch Food

Having spent much of my growing up years on ranches, I guess some would say I was deprived of fresh fruits and vegetables; however, I have such fond memories of canned food, especially canned grapefruit sections and canned kadota figs. Where was Kadota, anyway, the exotic place that produced those plump, seedy orbs in syrup?

The ranch commissary contained rows of syrupy fruits in cans: canned peaches halves and canned apricots were other favorites. I remember canned tomato soup and small cans of spinach, which my mother would dress with vinegar, bits of bacon and chopped hard boiled egg. I could easily imagine Popeye slurping canned spinach through a pipe.

I remember the DelMonte labels on canned cream of corn and canned green beans and Lipton’s canned cream of mushroom soup and cream of chicken soup that would go into casseroles with potatoes, which stood in a lumpy sack in a dark corner. Although some potatoes did come in cans, we didn't like them.

You should see the surface dumps here in Tuscarora: mostly rusted cans.

One-Page Meditations: Nature.

I am a country girl at heart and my heart is divided between two places: the basin and range country of northeastern Nevada and the Mendocino Coast of California.

The older affiliation is with the territory where I was born and raised. I have never really left it. All the years and trips going back to Elko, to my parent's small ranch on Thorpe Creek, their summer camp at Talbot Creek, both places at the base of the Ruby Mountains; and now Tuscarora and the stark beauty of the Independence Range. This is the place of my deepest sensory imprinting--the scent of sage, the surprisingly gaudy Nevada sunrises and sunsets, the sound and sting of winter wind; the feel of leather, a horse's sweaty hide, the weight of a horse's hoof in my hand; the taste of an alfalfa pellet, the nectar of Indian paintbrush, the sour, fruity taste of a wild rose hip; the bitter taste of a chokecherry before it is sweetened into jelly.

The Mendocino Coast reminds me of the birth of my children, the clearest connection with nature a woman can know; that is, until we experience dying. Here on the coast my senses are attuned to rain, fog, the deep whoosh of wind in the redwood trees; and the omnipotence of the Pacific ocean.

There is the solace of eternity in both places.

Falling Off the Wagon

Falling Off the Wagon: A Parable

You are the driver of a wagon, looking ahead, going down a road. You are also riding in the wagon, sitting on a pile of loose hay. The road is straight, curved, smooth. bumpy, wide, narrow: all the things a country road can be.

You keep falling off. You go along for a while and then you fall off. Sometimes it is because of the road, or maybe the horses shy at a rabbit, or the driver goes “gee-haw” without warning. Sometimes you fall off for good reason, sometimes for no discernable reason at all. You simply fall off the wagon.

You run to catch up, clamber back on, rearrange your body and your thoughts. You always feel good when you are safely back on the wagon, just you and the driver going down the road.

The next thing you know, you have fallen off again. You are surprised, irritated, frustrated. You have to catch up. Sometimes you panic that you won’t catch up. Sometimes you stop in the road and say, “To hell with it. I didn’t want to be on that wagon. I didn’t want to go down that road.” Then you run faster to catch up, get back on. You are desperate to get back on the wagon.

From a hillside high above the road you are a comical sight. There’s a long road and a driver and a wagon. There’s this person who keeps falling and running, climbing on, riding a while, then falling and running.

From a distance, it seems like a hard way to go down a road.

I, Too, Have a Hemingway Story

See September 25, 2012 revised version

Getting Stuck

Getting Stuck

Once, when I was fifteen, I got a tractor monumentally stuck. The summer of ’57 we moved from Elko to Deeth, which was the headquarters for the Marble Ranches. My dad let me work in the hayfields. I got to drive a buckrake. It was called a crazy buck, something rigged by the Grock Brothers, who had a garage down the highway.

The mower left long lines of hay and the buckrake would comb them up, put them in large piles, or take the hay to the haystack. It was really a great job. The meadow along the Humboldt River was fairly flat. You could lift the rake, put the tractor in third or fourth gear, and race your city slicker cousin Richard, who was also given a summer job by Dad, to the far end of the field and the next row of hay.

I got stuck by trying to take a shortcut across a slough. I should have stopped the tractor, gotten off, and inspected the swampy swale. Instead I charged ahead in third gear and sank halfway up the tires, wedging the rake in the embankment.

In the process of trying to get me out, two of the hay hands got their tractors stuck. Clay, the foreman, had to stop what he was doing, go back to the ranch and get the stock truck and tow chains, It took all afternoon to undo what it took me ten minutes to do.

You may think I caught hell for that. I didn’t. My dad wasn’t that kind of person. He knew I didn’t really know what I was doing. He probably felt responsible for sending me out there in the first place. The ranch hands didn’t care. They got paid the same whether they were haying or hauling the boss’s daughter out of a ditch. I stopped the operation for an afternoon. I’m sure the men had a good chuckle at supper that night.

So—what do I know about getting stuck? I didn’t understand what I was doing. I wasn’t paying attention to the lay of the land or to the piece of equipment I was operating. I was a girl playing at a man’s job. That’s the truth of it. But there’s another truth that has to do with being a writer.

I got stuck in a rut and cause a fair amount of trouble one July afternoon because I didn’t take the job or myself seriously. I was the boss’ daughter turned loose on a buckrake. “It’ll give her something to do this summer. It’ll be good for her,” they probably said. It wouldn’t have been feminine if I learned too much, if I really thought about the consequences of driving a tractor across that ditch. I also understand that my action could also be interpreted as youthful carelessness—regardless of gender.

But in finding some connection, I’d say it’s this: I didn’t believe that I should—and could-- learn the trade.

Anne Lamott and the Road to Paradise--or Not

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Anne Lamott and the Road to Paradise—or Not

Dear Virginia,

I said I would tell you the story of my tribulation, trying to get to Tuscarora at the same time I was listening to Anne Lamott reading Plan B—Further Thoughts on Faith. Because we both love Anne Lamott and are curious about her wonderful combination of craziness and faith, I took the time to record my misadventure.

Lamott herself was the reader, so it was like taking a road trip with a non-stop talker, someone so needy and neurotic and funny that I could not bring myself to eject her from the cd player. The consequence was that I made some stupid, unthinking decisions, practically ruined my new Suburu, and caused my husband go a little berserk.

Here’s what happened.

This was last Memorial Day weekend. The Tuscarora Artists were holding an Open Studio. It was a big deal, lots of advertising, even a Nevada Arts Council promotional grant. Joan and I had worked on a second series of the poetry cards, “Six Poems from Tuscarora.” She and Stan were already there, staying at the little summer place we’ve owned for years. I planned to meet them for the open studio and then stay on for a week or so.

I was filled with anticipation and loaded the car accordingly. Aside from clothes, books, writing materials and art supplies, there was a box containing six bottles of Roederer champagne in silver and gold gift wrap, a wedding present to be delivered to a family friend in Elko.

Friday I stayed at my son’s house in Carson City. I got an early start and was positive I would be in Tuscarora by noon. I bought the audio version of Plan B a month before and saved it for my road trip. Once I turned off Highway 395 and on to Interstate 80, I inserted the first disk.

Why are her words so captivating? For women roughly her age, like you and me, it’s because we share many of her issues. Also, we identify with her neediness—her need to think and write about herself, not because she is self-centered in an ordinary sense. It’s her burst of self-consciousness and uncertainty that we find both familiar and endearing. Remember when she isn’t even sure if her stuff is good enough for the dump?

Only when I passed Winnemucca and noticed that Golconda was ten miles away did I realize that I had to think about something besides Anne Lamott, her son, George Bush, and/or Jesus. I had a choice to make: should I turn off at Golconda and take the unimproved Midas road? Should I stay on 80 all the way to Elko, and then drive the fifty-two miles to Tuscarora, paved except the last seven miles of well-maintained county road?

I pulled into a rest stop a few miles before the Golconda exit. The high desert air was invigorating; the blue sky pure; and the mountains seemed familiar in a severe, primordial way. Actually, this particular range has always scared me a little. I didn’t even know its name.

Taking the Midas Road was the more adventurous choice, and I ignored the voice that sounded like a tiny husband sitting on my shoulder saying, “You’ll get a flat tire if you take the Midas road. Don’t do it.”

It’s not that I stood there thinking, “What would Anne Lamott do?” or, for that matter, “What would Jesus do?” although I was becoming a tiny bit peevish that I didn’t have a personal savior to help me through my worrisome days. I inhaled the Nevada air and found my inner ranch woman who said, “What the hell. Take the Midas road.”

I buckled myself back in the driver’s seat, inserted disk three and headed for the hills. You are probably guessing that I took the wrong road. Yep. All the time I thought I was on the Midas road to Tuscarora, I was on the Eden Valley road to Paradise. Here’s how it happened.

I had a cd going. I can’t exactly remember what Anne’s issue was, but I know I felt it would be rude of me not to give her my full attention. Also, I was talking on my cell phone with Joan. She was impatient, waiting for me to get to Tuscarora. There was a bus load of people from Reno who were on a Nevada arts tour. “A bus load” she said. “in Tuscarora!” Tuscarora has a year-round population of thirteen and ordinarily the only things you can buy are stamps at the post office.

“I’m coming,” I said. “I’m taking the Midas road. It’s quicker.” At the very moment I was talking with Joan and listening to Anne Lamott, I was turning onto a gravel road running parallel to the no-name mountains. Straight road, stark mountains. I know where I’ m going and I know who’s going with me, don’t I, Anne?

I must have clipped along for at least thirty miles, glancing at the mountains every now and then because there was something wrong about them, and looking for a sign. Yes, God and Jesus play such a huge part in Anne Lamott’s life that after the second disk, “sign” was starting to have a double meaning for me, too.

I could easily have gone the forty-four miles to Paradise Valley, Nevada without passing a soul on the road. Fortunately, I saw the dusty rooster tail of an oncoming pickup. I stopped, rolled down the window, and waved my arm. “Hi!” I said. “I think I’m on the Midas road. I’m tryin’ to get to Tuscarora. Am I on the right road?”

The driver, a ranch hand or a miner, gave me a kind look. “Nope. This is the road to Paradise. The Midas road is on the other side of the mountain.” His passenger looked straight ahead, probably suppressing a smirk.

The driver told me what I had to do, but I knew anyway. Turn around and eat his dust all the way back to Golconda, which I did. By this time I was well into the third cd. I may have turned her down, but I never turned her off. She needed me. She was on a cruise, obsessing about her body in a bathing suit.

When I got to Golconda, it was Groundhog Day, the movie. I had a choice to make: get back on interstate 80. Two hours to Elko and an hour to Tuscarora. Or take the Midas turnoff. I could clearly see the sign I had missed before: Midas 34 miles. My car was dusty; the windshield bug-specked. Tuscarora seemed closer, now that the mountains were on the appropriate side of my car. Yep. I took the road less traveled and regretted it.

Although I was pretty sure I was on the right road and there were signs pointing the way, my inner ranch woman had developed Lamottian insecurities. The signs became less frequent and weren’t confidence builders—little US Forest Service markers pointing to obscure destinations with stupid names like “Toe Jam Creek.” I was getting tense, but still listening to Anne Lamott.

However, I was getting weary of her fixation on George-the-devil-incarnate- Bush. I started talking back to my cd player. Then the next thing I knew I was laughing out loud as she described shades of feeling, from unconditional love to murderous rage, toward her teenage son. It’s the same honest study of the variety of parental responses that she so brilliantly describes in Operating Instructions, the first book of hers I read years ago. Okay, I tell myself. Stick it out with Anne. Trust you’re on the right road. You’ll get there.

Suddenly I see Willow Creek reservoir. Like an Old Testament wanderer in the desert, I see water. The oasis appears. It’s a miracle! Actually, it’s like that. You drive for about forty miles on a gravel road through a valley that’s not called “Paradise” adjacent to intimidating, no-name mountains, which are now on your left, as they should be, and then you move through an eternity of undulating sage-covered hills. The road becomes narrow, rutted, and curved. You can’t get too distracted because an idiot in a 4x4 truck or a hapless idiot like yourself in a station wagon could be barreling around the next curve and you will die in a head-on crash in the middle of nowhere. In the meantime, Anne Lamott is having a terrible time trying to teach Sunday school.

The end is near. I know where I am. I know where I’m going. I’m glad the road is rutted. It’s always rutted on the other side of the Willow Creek reservoir. Everybody knows that. I’m even excited about the swathes of Mormon crickets that now make the road crawl at various intervals. I imagine myself being able to tell Milt, our neighbor in Tuscarora, “Saw the crickets just the other side of Willow Creek.”

By now, I have had it with Anne Lamott. Had it! Why is she dumping one me? I have cellulite, too, and problems of my own. She has gone from being my best friend to another one of those people in my life who never listens.

Then I hear something—a pop and a hiss. “Fuck!” Anne Lamott also says fuck when she is anxious or frustrated. Jesus doesn’t seem to mind. I stop the car. Fortunately, I am not in a Mormon cricket zone at that moment. My first thought was that the rough road had caused one of the bottles of champagne to explode. I check the box in the back seat. Nope. I get out and walk around the car. I even get on my hands and knees and look under the car. Nothing was hanging loose. No oil pan in the dirt. I want to ask Anne Lamott if 2006 Suburus have oil pans, but, no, the car door is open and she’s still going on about herself.

Then it’s over. The end of the fifth cd. The car is quiet. My steering seems unusually difficult, but the ruts are deep. I see a familiar ranch and it is on the correct side of the road. I know I’m only five miles from Tuscarora, and I’m driving like the hounds of hell are chasing me.

It’s four in the afternoon. The first open studio day is done. The bus has taken the art-loving tourists back to the Red Lion Casino in Elko. As I pull up, I see Joan and Stan sitting on lawn chairs drinking gin and tonics. I can tell they’re glad to see me. They don’t even complain about the wave of dust I create when I pull into the yard. Stan raises his glass, “Ya want one?” and then points with his drink to my left front tire, “Flat tire.”

I realize that I have been riding the rim for the last ten or fifteen miles. Okay. This shouldn’t be a big deal. I got a flat on the Midas road. So, I didn’t listen to the tiny husband on my shoulder who now seems like a not-so-jolly green giant standing with his arms crossed back in California really pissed because everybody knows about these new AWD cars and you don’t get one flat tire you have to replace all four and you never, ever drive on a flat because that throws the finely calibrated steering mechanism out of whack and you might as well drive the son-of-a-bitch into the Willow Creek reservoir and go buy a new car.

Here’s how the story ends. I didn’t ruin the car. I did have to buy a new set of tires. The rest of the weekend was really fun. I did not have the religious conversion I was hoping for, in spite of all the signs. You know, headed for Paradise with Anne Lamott and then finding out you’re on the wrong road.

Love,

Nancy