I watched the low clouds roll in from the east to drop a quick half-inch into the rain gauge from which I had just emptied evidence of yesterday’s good luck — about three inches of much needed moisture.
The storm came in on windy gales that bent mesquite boughs in the thick, wet air — its thunder and lightning distant and muted to a powerful rumble.
The unexpected storm system will transform the dry, monochromatic khaki-colored pastures into bright green food plots for cattle and foraging wildlife.
The dried grasses will turn green almost overnight. The cattle will lose interest in the honking aviso that there is mascarrote in the back of the truck. They will opt for the green.
The Presa Escondida took on water and the pond near our house topped off — a good way to head into fall and winter. I’m guessing there weren’t many puddles because the dry soil absorbed the moisture quickly.
The work here has been routine over the last few days — chaparreando the fence lines, repairing the main interior fence that runs north and south, moving cattle, working on a small food plot for dove and deer, and emptying all the water troughs on the ranch so that we can clean the algae and slime out of them.
This merits mention because I’ve been able to help with some of the work instead of sitting on the sidelines as I have had to for the last two-and-a-half years.
After the work there is time alone in the peaceful hour before sunset. I find the threads that weave the bright tapestry that holds my heart to this beautiful place. It is love and so much more that tethers me here. It is also stories and lessons learned. It is the redemptive, restorative power of work. It is coming across forgiveness while at a repetitive, mindless task with a brush or a shovel in hand.
I survey the state of my bodega, which serves as the tack room and my workshop. In my absence it has become a dusty and disorganized space, but I know the drill for how to put it back together.
My grandchildren are away at camp, and I miss them in a way that makes me maudlin and disconsolate for a moment, but then my thoughts go to the essence of them, the wonder of them in my life.
I’ve carried a letter in my pocket from Emily, who is 13. She says she misses me, and she writes, “The majestic land around me reminds me of the land we share back home. Camp is so much fun and I have made the best of friends with my cabin mates. I feel that as I look upon the land around me that I am surrounded by God’s hand-carved beauty. I love you with all my heart, and I can’t wait to see you. In many ways you are my home.”
Amen, I say to myself, acknowledging the blessing of these tender written words.
I walk outside to run padlocks through their hasps, to shut down my day here.
I feel the heavy silence of this day’s end, and I look to the west to see the fiery orb of the sun dropping quickly into the horizon, leaving in its afterglow a sky awash in amber, orange, and lavender.
