In Perfect Time

By Timothy Anderson

~ ~ ~

     Breathing hurt. Each inhalation stung, the winter air shockingly cold then growing warm as my lungs adjusted to the sting of -20C degree air. My strides lengthened as I ran out of the house toward the calving barn. Restricted by Carhartt coveralls two sizes two big and runaway rubber boots, I tried to keep from tripping. Or sliding into a snow bank. Halfway across the yard I realized I’d left my gloves on the kitchen counter. Cussing, I kept running, realizing I had no time to retrieve them.
     

Large clumps of frost dropped from the metal roof, as the barn door slammed shut behind me. Off to the right I saw the cow in labor and took note of the hooves still mostly buried in the enormous cow’s vagina. Blood lay splattered on fresh straw. Against the wall, a wet calf lay still and spent, ignored by its mother as its twin waited to be born.
     The rancher motioned for me to grab a small chain attached to the calf’s legs and pull.
     “With the contractions Tim…with the contractions.”
     Taking hold of the chain, I waited for the strain and upon the contraction, I pulled. Arching her back, the mother strained against the baby that lay mostly still inside of her. Near exhaustion, her coat wet with sweat in the sub zero air, she made no sound. Another contraction and more of the calf’s front legs and then the nostrils appeared, as well as a blue tongue, draped to one side of a mouth that seemed clenched in gritted teeth. Flash frozen.
     “She’s trying. Here it comes. Pull, Tim!”
     Again we worked with the cow and pulled. The calf’s head appeared and then dropped off to one side. The rest of his small body remained partially confined and cradled inside the birthing canal. I regained footing and waited.
Clayton looked at me. “This should be it.” As if on cue, the cow pushed and we took her lead, pulling. The large calf dropped and Clayton caught the newborn on the knees of his dirty coveralls. He cushioned the calf’s fall from the height of the standing cow. He rubbed straw over its body and around the young bull calf’s nose. I stood watching, still holding the bloody chains.
“He’s not breathing. We need to lift him. Grab here…”
     Clayton lifted the calf’s body and I grabbed the front legs. We draped the lifeless body over the metal tube railing, allowing gravity to force out any fluid that might still be in his lungs. The blue tongue remained suspended lifeless in the air.
     After receiving no response, the rancher grabbed the calf and dropped it back down to the straw. He began an unpleasant resuscitation attempt, grabbing the calf’s nose and blowing into it while massaging its heart. I dropped to my knees and began to pump the newborn animal’s chest. Clayton concentrated on short breaths blown into the calf’s nose while he kept its mouth clamped shut.
     Occasionally we paused to wait, listen, and feel. Nothing. I looked at Clayton and he nodded. Resuming our efforts we worked on the calf for several additional minutes. The red faced rancher started gagging and quit. Wiping his mouth on his bloody sleeve, he recomposed himself. Looking over my way he said absentmindedly, “I was fine until I started thinking about what I was doing. Then…well you saw. I nearly lost it.”
For a brief minute I thought I felt the calf stir. There was a gurgling sound. Then again, there was nothing. Clayton felt it as well. We went back to work. One thousand one. One thousand two. Short breaths. Pumping gently. Praying our way through each second. Refusing to let this life pass on.
     “He’s gone, Tim. We lost him. Don’t know if we ever had him.”
     Staring down at the beautiful but lifeless calf, I wiped my bloody, sticky hands on the coveralls. Standing, I walked over to first born calf. Its mother and another cow began to lick the fragile baby. I became aware of the cold against my hands and then noticed that another cow was already in labor. Part of the calf’s hooves and the amniotic bag already extended from the cow’s vagina and as I watched silently, she was overwhelmed with another contraction. I turned to see if Clayton saw. He shrugged.

~ ~ ~

    Sitting in the living room of Clayton’s ranch house, I absorbed the night. Outside the temperatures hovered in the -30 C range, with wind chills flash freezing the prairie air another ten degrees colder. Light snow, caught by the wind, blew across the drive and in the hazed stillness of two A. M. eternal, I watched as the moon kissed the flurries. I could not sleep. Maybe it was the moon. Maybe not. I remained mesmerized by the prairie night.
     Out on the highway, I traced the progress of a sporadic parade of big rigs. Clearance lights of red and amber blurred east and west. Rushing off into dawn’s promise, their drivers chased a never ending destiny linked with motion.
     I brought my knees up to my chest and lingered in the darkness. Resting on a large overstuffed western couch with replicated patterns from the ancient traditions of First Peoples, I willed the unsettled future back into tomorrow. The fabric warmed my skin against the night chill. I spied a coyote prance out of wooded shelter, pause and finally trot back into the cover of a back-lit birch. Further against the trees, four horses in their own lightness of being pranced and galloped into the fresh powder. Daring the moon to stop them, throwing their heads, and then retreating whence they came.
     An arch rose over the driveway entrance with a large completely blank sign suspended from rusted chains. As I watched, the sign swayed slightly, then rested taut against the chains. I thought about that sign. Riding the winded seasons, year after year, the unwritten weathered wooden sign, gave meaning to everything I had come to know here.
      During the drive “back to the yard” from Yorkton, Clayton asked me to come up with a name for his slice of heaven. Every settlement in these parts is considered a “yard” as opposed to the term homestead. Clayton says that he lives too far east from the divide to be considered a proper ranch, yet in the openness of so much sky, I think ranch fits.
      But, I am learning that customs on the prairie don’t seem to change, unlike the time zones and seasons. As I watch the night, this seems to be the truest statement. Rooted against the seasons, hardy farmers and ranchers cling to their customs, their way of doing things, in hopes that tradition will help them withstand the wind, the arctic cold, and maybe help their souls wait out another winter.
     Traditions define this place. Words have different meaning. Here lunch is dinner. And dinner is supper. Breakfast can be at noon and lunch is served just prior to midnight, when the company departs.
     This is the land of prairie. I’ve found it’s a place where longtime residents instinctively lay low to the ground and seem to prefer a landscape of gentle relief rather than breathtaking summits. It is a subtle region where timing is everything and Lord help the person who doesn’t get it. When to plant. When to cut hay. When to harvest grain. And when to disregard everything one knows because the timing seems wrong.
     The cows calve in early winter or maybe later depending on a lot of things that only make sense to the locals. Some farmers will artificially inseminate to gain a tentative control over calving season. Because last year the winter didn’t let up until it was too late and no one wants to be calving in that misery again.
      As I catch the gusts of wind whipping more powder outside and the moon is finally gone, I hear the ticking of the clock and know that timing is far more than a collection of hours and seconds and notched marks on the calendar. Timing is all about the rains that come in April or maybe later because some years there’s drought. Timing is when the trips to town happen on bad weather days because the good weather may be short lived and pity the farmer who doesn’t take advantage of such blessings. The prairie is a place of permanent timing and a lot of maybes. Here, the sanity of man is judged by his ability to understand, respect and disregard these unstated truths. And, as I sat observing the world of the post-midnight silence, I struggled for that magic combination of sentiments that would define timing. Mere words, I could sum up in a sentence that would encompass this understanding of the paced nature of things. A phrase describing Clayton’s relation to his environment and this, his slice of heaven. All 1200 acres of it. A string of words that could be posted on his weathered and naked sign proudly suspended over the drive. A statement, announcing to anyone passing by, that they'd arrived here, at the sum total of Clayton’s place.
     As the snow quickened and a coyote howled in the distance, I found the words that should go upon that weathered wood. A statement fitting of the nature of this place, lined with its frozen movement and unstated rules. A completely perfect sentiment, one honoring Clayton and his husbandry of his cows and his horses and the wild whims of nature that any just passing through stranger could understand.

~ ~ ~

     “Hold out your wrist, Tim.”
     I was sitting in Clayton’s kitchen. Breakfast was finished and we were on the third cup of coffee. Outside the wind was unforgiving and the temperatures were lower than they had been at midnight. I studied the Hungarian rancher with his dark salt and pepper hair and the warm gleam in his eyes. His forearms were twice the size of mine and he towered over me.
     Tentatively I held out my wrist and watched as Clayton bent down and wrapped a small metal chain around the end of my palm, fastened it, and then pulled it taut.
     “Feel that?” He yanked on it again until I nodded.
     The cold metal felt uncomfortable around my wrist and seemed to make exact contact with bone. I noticed the sensation that I seemed to be short on flesh in that part of my anatomy.
     “Right. Good.” He unfastened the chain as he continued talking. “You never want to hook a chain around a calf’s hoof. If you pull tight like that, it can separate the hoof from the leg. You want low impact. Keep holding your wrist up.”
     I kept my arm extended and watched as Clayton moved the chain higher up my forearm, wrapped the chain and then fastened it. Moving lower, he made another loop of the chain and then circled the same wrist.
     “See the difference? Now we’ve distributed the force of the pull. It’s spread over a greater area. If you pull a calf using this method, you…” He demonstrated, pulling the chain tight and increasing his pressure on the chain until my arm responded. Leaning into the force, I felt the difference. The tension seemed more evenly distributed and didn’t connect with my bones.
     I nodded. I got it.
     He smiled. “Next time we get a heifer having trouble with her first calf, you get to reach in that cow and hook them up. There’s nothing to it.” He was laughing, not really at me but he did seem to get more pleasure than necessary out of his impromptu demonstration. “So you think you got the stomach to reach in there and hook these up? Especially now that you know all you need to know about pulling a calf?
     Looking at the mark the chains left on my arm and trying to remember the loop maneuver, I wasn’t so sure. I shrugged. Surely I was a better at assisting than performing the technical stuff. In my childhood, we pulled foals out of distressed mares on our horse ranch, but the foal’s legs were longer and it happened infrequently. I’d only been on Clayton’s ranch for less than a week and so far I’d helped pull two calves in one day.

~ ~ ~
  

  “So I hear you got five sets of twins.” The waitress wiped the table and set sparkling cold water glasses down in front of us. Menus followed. Next came the silverware, napkins and a grin.
“      You did…? How did you…” Clayton never got the words out.
     “Oh Clayton, you know I got my ways…thank god mine aren’t due until later. April, I hope. Learned my lesson with last years calves.” The waitress turned and looked at me. “And I already know all about you. So you’re….Tim right? Hear you’re up from Washington, eh? Like those Arabians do you?” She smiled, amused at the shock on my face. I turned to face Clayton who shrugged.
     “I didn’t say nothin’ to her. Swear. It’s a small town.”
     I looked back at the waitress, who was talking about the soup of the day. “Cream of potato is the soup and hamburger on a bun is the special. You know what you want or you need a moment?”
     Clayton told the waitress to give us a moment while I recovered from the unsettling profiling. “You had to tell her I was coming.” I prodded, “Does the whole town know?”
     He blushed again. “Nope, I didn’t tell her anything Tim, I swear. Maybe she heard it from someone I work with over at the sale yard. They all know I got company due in this week from the states. Most the guys from the livestock sale eat here… Or it could be Dale. He was sure impressed with you.
     Closing the menu, I looked at Clayton. “You shitting me? You think Dale told her?”
      It was a bit much to take. Arab people and Quarter horse people are about as likely to agree on anything as a Christian Republican and a gay Democrat. I’d met Dale the previous night when he’d visited Clayton’s place. Stopping by unannounced, the horse breeder chatted Clayton up about Clayton’s Quarter Horse breeding. In the end, Dale stayed for supper.
     Dale was an unwavering quarter horse breeder who’d grinned from ear to ear when I remarked that Clayton’s yearling colt sure bore a striking resemblance to an Arabian. Arabs are known for a delicate dished head and they carry themselves in a spirited way, throwing their heads and lifting their tales high over their croups when they run. Blessed with a nicer head than I’d ever seen on a Quarter Horse, Clayton’s colt went further toward messing with the firm loyalties of the Quarter Horse Clan. Although papered as 100% Quarter horse, Clayton’s colt showed a nicer head than most purebred Arabs! Yet the rancher swore up and down that he wasn’t shining me and that he could prove the chestnut, white blazed colt prancing around his pasture was a purebred. Even though, as Clayton argued his case, his face kept turning a deeper red. Dale was delighted by the exchange and finally interjected.
     Agreeing with me Dale good-naturedly kidded the flustered rancher sitting across the supper table from him. “You didn’t tell him beforehand, Clayton?” Dale was incredulous. “You should have told him Clayton, I mean instead of hoping he wouldn’t notice. How could anyone not notice that pretty head?” Dale winked at me. Then he attempted a quick repair job on Clayton’s wounded ego.
     “Actually he is a nice colt. I’ve always liked him and I am not sure Clayton you should geld him. He definitely has upper end breeding, eh. Wouldn’t you say so Tim?”
     I nodded quite aggressively.
     The poor cornered rancher only turned redder.
     Over the next hour, I found Dale to be fascinating. He bred reigning/cutting horses with Solanos Peppy San blood. Over our shared meal, I learned about the dreams of the small breeder sitting next to me. “I always loved horses and knew I’d be back to raising them someday, eh. I think it gets in your blood.”
     Dale’s enthusiasm for his animals qualified as a near obsession and as he discussed his breeding strategy, I decided that in translating his enthusiasm, very few men lived and breathed all things horses as much as he. Dale had it bad, just like Clayton and me.
     Later, after he’d left, Clayton filled in the gaps of how Dale had nearly given up his horsemanship dreams after he lost his first foal the year before. The colt appeared healthy at birth, but shortly afterward the foal became lethargic. Vets were called and solutions tried but in the end, the little baby died on Clayton’s place. So many hopes and dreams perished with the death of that foal. Dale wept, heartbroken over the loss.
     The experience also fell hard on Clayton. The next day, in the blowing storm of a prairie snow squall, Clayton abruptly stopped feeding his own horses to let me know he considered the death of that foal one of the most heartbreaking gut punches either men had ever known. “I wish it would have been one of mine that died. I felt so bad. We tried everything but we just couldn’t keep that foal alive.” Clayton turned back to feeding his horses and I went back inside to warm up. Nothing more was said.
     Dale wasn’t the only unannounced visitor to come calling at Clayton’s door. I learned in short order that whenever a light was on, folks dropped by. Ranchers needing a new bull. Neighbors borrowing tools. An ex-partner needing to check on his livestock that remained at Clayton’s place. Other gay farmers and their truck driver boyfriends.
     Everyone who visited Clayton’s farm was natural, relaxed, and at ease. The good natured fellowship seemed surreal. My preconceptions bit the dust. Clayton’s ranch became a sort of new take on Big Eden, prairie style. No one seemed to care that Clayton was gay. They cared only that he was a good neighbor.
     The waitress returned interrupting my thoughts. “So you decided what you want?”
     “I’d like the hamburger on a bun please. Can I have cheese on that as well?”
     The waitress stopped writing and stared at me while Clayton stifled a laugh.
     “What?” I asked looking first at the waitress, then back at Clayton. “What’s so funny?”
     “ You realize there’s gravy on that don’t you? It isn’t like a regular hamburger.” She was silent to add affect.
     Standing there with her pen poised. Looking down at me. “So do you still want cheese and gravy on your hamburger? Have it all on bread?” It was a dare.
     I regrouped. “You mean it’s not a hamburger-like with tomato and lettuce and…”
     “Uh, no. It’s hamburger meat. Laid out on bread, eh, like on a French roll with gravy poured over it…” The waitress smiled patiently. Americans can be so cute when they don’t know what they are ordering in a foreign land. Which I’ve painfully learned is most of the time.
     The waitress finally took my order- the equivalent of a quarter-pounder. In no mood to get into something I couldn’t get myself out of, I choose the safe bet of the standard no frills hamburger-no laid over bread, hold the gravy please and never mind the cheese. Two summers before I’d gotten into trouble trying unfamiliar territory. Traveling with fellow road warriors on the way to the Calgary rodeo, we’d stopped in a Cranbrook, BC A&W. On the menu board, I’d read of a dish called Poutine. Not knowing what it was, or how to pronounce Poutine, I mixed up the pronunciation with Poontang.      After it was much too late, I discovered that Poutine was something you poured over French fries. Poontang on the other hand was something you wished poured out of a bikini.
     After the waitress left, Clayton and I speculated regarding the word out on the street surrounding his “guest.” In small town Yorkton word traveled fast. Clayton figured that the quarter horse breeder Dale had been into the small cafe for lunch earlier. Dale must have told the waitress all about me. Relieved, Clayton figured the news hadn’t traveled too far.
When our food arrived we learned that the Yorkton gossip tree was much larger and sure-footed than either of us guessed.
     As it turns out, Dale worked as an accountant at the same livestock sale yard as Clayton. Arriving at work, Dale told his secretary about the American with the eye for horses. Clayton was officially busted. His status owning an Arab horse in self confessed Quarter Horse country would take some explaining. News like this is too good to pass up, especially when the owner of that Quarter Horse Arabian just happened to be a provincial brand inspector. In Saskatchewan, people are supposed to know their horses. They don’t make mistakes. The smart ones know better than to try to sneak an Arabian into good, pure Quarter Horse bloodlines.
     Dale’s secretary told a bull hauler all about Clayton’s getting busted. The bull hauler, who was down loading cows at the sale yard, was the boyfriend of our waitress. We weren’t past noon yet and I figured at the current rate, I’d know the premier of Saskatchewan by sundown.

~ ~ ~

Arriving at the livestock sale yard, I looked around the parking lot. Snow spit hard and unforgiving out of the east and the minute I jumped out of Clayton’s pickup truck, I regretted the invention of wind. Holding my head down, my few glances up and around me seemed to confirm that the cattle producers in these parts were not ones to outwardly display their wealth. These were not ranchers who sported Cadillac convertibles with longhorn guidance systems on the hood. These were not families who made a show out of strong beef prices by purchasing loaded Ford Excursions and Chevy Suburbans. Glancing around the parking lot, this group was definitely a vote for making due with what you’ve got. The pickup trucks, unhitched from their stock trailers were salted and dirty. Most of the rigs looked several years old and many of the trucks resembled demolition derby survivors.
     Next to the main building, a satellite truck stood motionless. A large dish pointed toward the southern sky as the snow drifted around its tires. The truck would allow buyers from around the country to take part in the bidding, in real time just as if they were in the sale barn
     Sitting on the eastern edge of Yorkton, Saskatchewan, Heartland Livestock is known among cattle producers as a sale barn to be reckoned with. It is among the largest such operations in Canada. Here cattle are bought and sold from several different provinces and when the cattle moving through the pens are sold and eventually shipped, the livestock will ship in just as many directions as they originally came from. Heartland is run by the Nilsson Brothers, the largest beef name in Alberta. The livestock processed through this facility are the top bred beef cows in Canada. Depending on the position of the U.S. dollar against its Canadian equivalent, the cows will ship out to Alberta, to U.S. feed lots, or to meat packing plants in either country. Entering the main door of the facility, I instantly recognized the sweet, yet insistent, smell of cattle kept in confined places.
      Clayton picked up a sale list and pointed at the program noting that over 2300 cows were destined to be sold on that day. When he introduced me to the woman behind the counter she gave me the same knowing nod that the waitress sent my way the day before. I tried catching Clayton’s eye but he was already heading toward the stairs.
     Today’s sorted pen sale seemed geared toward large outside cattle brokers and buyers. Yet the benches surrounding three sides of the auction pen, were mostly filled with interested local cattle ranchers. Some producers sitting in the bleachers owned livestock in the sale, others dropped in just to witness the fluctuation of price and gauge their own herds against the animals offered for sale. Making our way to the top bleacher in the bidding arena, I discovered via Clayton that some of the largest players in Canada would be jockeying among themselves and the quick-tongued auctioneer.
     Competition among buyers was strong and these serious men tended to get into bidding wars with the other serious men sitting on the long front row bleacher perched against the rail. “When these guys start bidding against each other it’s good for beef prices. That bidding rivalry has been known to put a few smiles on faces.” Clayton thought for a minute and then gave me a serious look before he continued. “Don’t you dare blink, scratch your nose, or make a move. That auctioneer has a good eye and remember, I am in the business of selling not buying cows.”
     Three unmanned TV cameras sat positioned around the pen. A man stood in the pen and on cue opened a sliding door next to the auctioneer’s perch. On signal, cows romped into the pen and suddenly to a stop upon realizing that this was no ordinary holding pen. Sensing something foreboding and different about this pen, they looked up, wild-eyed, at the auctioneer. The cows eyed the faces of those who’d raised them. This was an emotional moment that seemed filtered and strained. The attachment wasn’t to the animal but to the dollars they would bring. In the pen, at the feedlot, at the slaughter house and maybe down the street at the Super Canadian store.
     The frantic animals seemed unable to register that their entire life span was captured in red digital letters, in a lowly sale pen that promised return and reward and ruin and sometimes all three in the same breath. Yet only the cows, through their frightened glances and frantic collisions, communicated the universal fear and instinctive unease present in both man and beast.
      The bidding, led by the pointing, openhanded motions of the auctioneer did not calm these animals and no sooner had the cattle began to quiet than an opposite door would shoot open and the cattle would exit the sale pen in a rush of uncoordinated movement and flailing hooves. Over and over again this process repeated itself. Appearing and disappearing rapid fire, each lot was just a brief eye blink of displayed information appearing above the auctioneer.
     Most of the ranchers in attendance seemed near retirement age. These were not the quick-footed, muscular cowboys of Marlboro Man fame. Instead the ranchers gathered around us were round bellied and nondescript. Their wives, sitting alongside their unacknowledging husbands, appeared weathered and hardened. Undoubtedly these tight-faced women knew more than their fair share of heartache, and misfortune. Watching their participation reminded me of the old saying that any rancher was only as good as the woman standing beside him. Echoing this sentiment, the women seemed more interested in the prices coming from the slurred, rapid fire, stream of returns uttered from the constantly fidgeting auctioneer than in their husbands’ conversations.
     Make no mistake, these women were equal players in the returns of their family’s years of hard work. They knew the history of the cows they bred, and the difference between a good price and a make or break price. The ranchers whispered among the other ranchers, as their wives studied the business of the cattle business. Quietly focused, they sat reading the digital minimum bids.
     The cowboy-hatted auctioneer launched each sale lot as he watched for subtle tips of head, twitch of finger or drop of pen coming from the shifty cattle buyers. The auctioneer’s tradition hung sacred above us as he called out the beef prices in liturgical rhythm and the cattle baronesses followed suit as if this were a Sunday meeting. Tracking the cattle from one bidder to the next, until the final price landed, the wives made marks in their programs noting the dollars, the poundage and the shape of the cattle changing hands. At some point, I half expected someone to pass the plate and tithing might commence. I looked around the hushed bidding hall wondering when an unrepentant rancher would unexpectedly fall to his knees overcome by the spirit of unforgiving cattle prices. It seemed that serious.

~ ~ ~

     Prairie culture has its moments of fame, sometimes sought but mostly not. Enjoy the victories, but be ready. Celebrate the hay that wins first prize at Agribition. Savor the dark horse prospect that wins the admiration of every quarter horse breeder for hundreds of miles. Breathe a sigh of relief over that bull that brings calving ease, solid temperament, and reliable breeding; a champion sire who puts solid marbled weight on each and every offspring. When life is smiling on a knowing farmer, such blessings are graciously accepted with a humble thank you and a dash out to the parking lot before something goes wrong.
     Because something is always going wrong.
     All good farmers know that a perfectly good, average day can turn eventful and embarrassing in a heartbeat. If disaster strikes by noon, by the time that evening’s town softball game rolls around, the whole damn community knows.
     Unfortunately, human nature determines a curious rule for weighing the high points of ones life against the low points. For some unknown reason, the fame usually remembered is that which the bearer most desperately wishes forgotten. The champion bull, the prized hay, and the perfect crop awards pass quickly. It’s the uh-oh’s that can’t seem to get forgotten. The high points of the low points. The hall of shame of whoops, misfortune, bad luck, or stupidity-these are the moments retold for years afterward. Painstaking remembered at the local sports bars, the after-church coffees, and if one is really unlucky, the “remember when” column of the town paper.
     If for no other reason than this universal Darwinian law, church attendance at Yorkton is something one can bet on. Especially during the dry spells when nothing has gone really publicly wrong for a very long time. Farmers and ranchers get uneasy. They start looking over their shoulders and they start talking to God more often. They make deals. They wonder who among them is really too proud and could use a lesson. They don’t sleep. They become a very careful people.
     Luckily for Yorkton, Clayton’s brother, who also farms, single-handedly seems to attract disaster on a regular basis. Taking the pressure off every other farmer for counties in several hundred miles, Clayton’s brother’s mishaps are legendary. The stuff that will be told long after one has gone into exile in Alberta or Manitoba. This notoriety is “that other fame.” The one people beg and pray and tattle and make deals with God to avoid.
     A few days after the trip to the livestock sale, Clayton and I are on our way into Yorkton again. This time in search of a calf-tagging gun that seems conspicuously absent from every co-op and feed store shelf for a hundred miles. Not even Regina has one. Our conversation turns and without warning Clayton and I are discussing God and fate and luck. The discussion winds its way toward the topic of unwanted fame. Clayton looks over my direction and his face busts into a cockeyed grin. “I shouldn’t tell you this. My brother would kill me…”
     Looking over at Clayton, I notice a puzzling expression on his face. “What do you mean? Of course you can tell me. What could be so bad that your brother did?”
     “No I can’t.” Clayton shakes his head sheepishly, as his face bears this red, guilty look. “I mean it’s not like a secret around here, what happened. But my brother does this to himself, eh. I mean when does an accident cease to be considered an accident and more like the deserved result of being lazy?” Clayton goes quiet again as he weighs the pros and cons of whatever tale he has to tell. Yet as we drive through wind drifting snow, I know he has to spill his guts. It’s just too good a story. It’s the kind of misfortune that only comes along once or twice in a lifetime. Clayton keeps chuckling to himself and shaking his head, almost as if in disbelief that it really did happen. And worse, that it happened to someone he actually knows.
      Finally persuaded, he continues. “My brother…well he says the land is cursed, Tim. Claims it’s “all bad luck.” But I know it’s not. Land just doesn’t get cursed like that. People get into trouble, but it’s never the land’s fault.” He rubs his forehead as he drives down the two-lane highway. He is giggling now. Looking over at me, I notice a strange and very mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he narcs on his own flesh and blood. Clayton is going to go to hell for this slight, but damn, the man is sure going to have a good time on this journey to the dark side.
     “See it was a very dry spring. I mean very dry. And my brother is feeding his cows in the corral with his tractor. All of the sudden the tractor stalls, eh. Just quits right there, in the middle of the corral. But my brother is too lazy to get it running again so he leaves it stranded, stuck in the middle of the corral. A few days later, he drives his pickup truck into the corral to boost the engine, give her a jump and get her going again. Now the corral is a mess, and there is loose straw and manure everywhere. So, somehow my brother gets his truck stuck as well. Now remember Tim it is very dry. So my brother still decides to try to boost his tractor with the pickup truck so he can use the tractor to get his rig unstuck. While he is boosting the tractor, he leaves the truck running. The exhaust from his truck ignites the straw under the truck…”
      Clayton is laughing so hard now he can barely speak. His delight at this episode is barely contained by the fact that he is still driving in a blizzard and trying to keep his own pickup truck on the road. “ First the truck starts burning and as the fire spreads through the straw, the tractor goes up in flames. The tires catch on fire. I mean you can’t just extinguish a tire once it goes up. But no we aren’t even done yet…he loses the corral fence as well. There is this big black smoke billowing up into the sky, you can see it for miles. Finally, my brother has to call the fire department, which means everyone who hasn’t actually seen the smoke finds out. The fire gets put out but not before a big…I mean big insurance claim. It’s in the paper. Happened five or six years ago and everyone is still talking about it.
     Other stories replace the first. As Clayton struggles to breathe, I learn about the same brother’s cherished dance with a Quonset hut. The one he installed over a concrete foundation but never tied down. The hut, that according to the guffawing Clayton, “the demons” must have blown over.
     “At that point, when it first blew over, it was still salvageable. I mean there were a couple dents but nothing too hideous. He could have saved it…but does he? No, instead he just puts it right back on the foundation…no tie downs, nothing. Of course it blows over again…This time, it’s a mess. He also caught his house on fire…I mean, I understand. It’s not his fault. It’s the land. It’s cursed!” Clayton no longer speaks, he is consumed in laughter.
     We arrive in Yorkton and unbeknownst to either of us, Heartland Livestock Sale Yard is the big news event of the day. Someone left the gate open and eleven renegade white steers embrace freedom and the great blizzard stampede is on. The steers take the deluxe city tour, and the local paper finds the renegade cows before the cowboys who are also in their hot pursuit. This all but guarantees a new legend will emerge at the local café. Who was responsible for their escape? Who saw them first, and which wrangler brought them back into the pens? Will anyone get fired? Heroes and villains are created in the space of seconds. The townsfolk will spend the next few days speculating whether the twenty people protesting the Iraq war in downtown Yorkton should still be on the front page or if the picture of the cow chase should replace them. They’ll also wonder if this spectacle will be comical enough to make the national CBC news. That eleven white steers could go missing and no one noticed is appreciated. That the paper found them first is celebrated. That the cows were recaptured after such a bold dash for self-determination is sad but necessary. For people in Yorkton, the diversion is welcome relief. They need to get their minds off the cold. They need to get their minds off the endless winter. But most importantly, the good citizens of Yorkton are reminded they need to get right with God.

~ ~ ~

     On my last day at Clayton’s farm, the weather turned bitterly cold after a few days that hinted that spring might not be as illusive as one might think. During a lull in the routine of chores and feeding the cattle, I came around the corner of the calving barn and confronted a moment from my first hours on his ranch. The dead calf.
      Near a pile of manured and blood dirty straw, lay the frozen body of the calf we’d tried to resuscitate. The small dead animal lay sprawled on the ground. Lifeless eyes stared toward the blue sky as small bits of fur ruffled in the breeze. Even in death, nearly two weeks after his passing, he remained beautiful. Flash frozen, he lay waiting for the next stage when either the coyotes would quicken his return to the nourishment cycle or the ground would open and he would turn back to dust.
      I stood transfixed. Clayton’s two Australian shepherds, Spark and Kate, suddenly appeared at my side and alternately looked at the still calf and then back up at me. Spark licked my gloved hand, suggesting in her impatience that this pause, this reflective moment was neither important nor worthy of such a stellar day.
     The younger Spark seemed ill equipped to concentrate and at times created more work than she actually prevented. Leaving her own mark on my stay, she’d chewed the laces on my boots to the point where each day I spent a moment thinking of her as I tried to stretch the laces long enough to tie. Kate was a much better cow dog. Instinctively she read the moment, and seemed to appear at the right places at the right times, cutting off bulls, encouraging calves to stay with their mothers, and providing a warm body to curl up to in the barn.
     Turning, I looked one last time at the calf and then walked toward the horses. The forecast called for the temps to drop to minus 45. Before wind chill. The severity of the wind chill assaulted every sense. Eyes tingling, my hair stiffened and the frigid temperatures froze every muscle into the stiffest resistance.
     As I walked, squinting against the brightness, the snow crunched underfoot. The day was crystal clear. The wide blue prairie skies appeared far warmer and inviting than they were in reality. From inside the house one could actually visualize a shirtless day. In the oddest sense, those blue skies compared with the refreshing illusion of a desert mirage, promising relief where none was found.
     Walking further down Clayton’s long lane, I approached four horses patiently waiting out the winter. Friendly, they stood in a long line, as if expecting to be scored by some unseen panel of judges. Lined up, this impromptu “best of show” competition, seemed entirely for my benefit. On some silent cue, all four horses turned their heads in unison to face me, eagerly nickering, their ears cocked forward. I leaned into the corral and breathed into warm outstretched muzzles. We’d become fast friends in the last two weeks. This was their goodbye, their final salute. Solitary against the birch and poplars, blinding dark against the snow, they stood. Harmony, comfort, and joy-this was the gift they gave.
     Approaching the end of the lane, I once again studied the entrance to Clayton’s slice of heaven. Weathered posts, set against three-rail fence, and joined overhead by crossbars. The seasoned sign dangled, still nameless against the blue winter sky. Hearing the wind whine through the posts, I felt the splintered wood. Once again, I heard the softest nicker from the horse standing closest to me. The horse begged my attention, reminding me that some things remain unacknowledged. The sign could wait, the gelding could not. Together the horse and I embraced the sky as I scratched his neck and he arched his head upward in precious ecstasy.
      Walking along the fence line, I turned back toward the outbuildings, accompanied by an equine entourage. The horses pranced and jostled each other as they followed me to the other end of the snow-covered pasture. Their playfulness was the refreshing language of creatures that understand they are loved and well cared for.
     Bending down, I entered the second pasture. Suddenly surrounded by another seven horses, they galloped through fresh snow toward where I stood. Spinning and whirling, heads tossing, each hoof landing into the softest carpet and the sound of their movement in the powder was exquisite music. Clayton’s horse’s simple enthusiasm, unconditional affection and the carefree nature of their antics, have become a pleasure I’ll miss. In spite of the cold, Clayton tells me he’s never seen his horses respond to anyone like this before.
     Trudging deeper into the pasture, I’m immediately surrounded with warm muzzles blowing soft air over my skin. The contrast forces me to shiver and as the horses crowd around me, I realize I have no “out” should one of them shy, become dominant, or aggressive. Encircled, the rush of losing control quickens the pulse. Being at the mercy of so many gentle beasts, knowing the tension of thousands of pounds of living horseflesh felt heady. Held in this moving embrace, the comforted gifting of beast toward man, the warmth of their earnest kisses was over all too quickly.

 

 

     Although I’d wanted to linger, the remaining light faded quickly and Clayton’s chores awaited completion. Giving my favorite gelding Buck a huge hug, I eased my way out of the circle of horses. The big grulla gelding with his dark and partly lighter mane stood aside and blew on my face one more time. As if to say goodbye.
     Emerging from the pasture, I scanned the corrals until I found Clayton going about his routines. For a minute I held fast, watching him dance his dance among the livestock. Although the patient rancher might just write this off as the tedious everyday act of doing chores, to an outside observer, magic was afoot. Witnessing the instinctive actions of one possessing unique gifts was captivating. The talented always make it seem easy, capturing their flight with their first love- appearing to an outsider as if it is the easiest partnership. Clayton turns away such praise, but as I watch his progress, this is the poetry of one who is at home in his element. Here is flawless intricacy, and spectacular execution. Here is a man who lives to farm and who loves the cycles of the day. Here is one who is at perfect peace with his environment.
     Standing in the fading light, I watched as Clayton went about his perfect business. His farming methodology displaying that settled routine. The method to his madness of chores, reaching beyond the dictates of reason, bears an execution that borders on artistic. Clayton is not just a producer of commodities but a steward of resources. Everything has its time. Everything has its place. Cycles are at work here and in the eyes of the aware, the intricacy and perfection inherent in each task borders on splendid clockwork. This is the real world application to Ecclesiastes.
     Studying Clayton, I have learned much about this timing. I know that his livestock will be divided. Those cows about to calf occupy one corral, then are rotated into a heated calving barn upon giving birth. Kept there for the first twenty-four hours, the calves are monitored before they are released back into the corral containing the other expectant cows. After a few more days of observation, if the calf does not develop signs of scours, pneumonia or other afflictions, they will be rotated out to other corrals or holding areas. Other expectant cows will replace them and as rotated animals are constantly moving their way through the pens, the efficiency of his system is unquestionable.
      Clayton’s livestock consume feed grown on his land. He plants, harvests, and rolls his own oats, as well as growing his own hay, straw, and alfalfa.
      To the knowing observer, these agricultural movements are measures. They sing the farmer electric as they crescendo then pause, only to rise again with each cycle. Many parts simultaneously come together for the harmony to gel and a weakness in one part, will affect the performance of the entirety.
     There is a time to plant and a time to harvest. There is a time to breed cows and a time to wean the calves from their mothers. There is a time to worry about the coming seasons and a time to compensate for their arrival. There is a time for everything, and as I watch Clayton, his response minimizes his resistance, while letting the momentum of the cycles of life carry him along.
     Clayton, a son of the prairie is a keeper of traditions that can’t be learned from a book. For he is a man of flawless timing. He is a man who instinctively understands that timing is both defined and abstract. That timing is predictable and wayward. That timing is a life saver and deal breaker. Finding that sweet spot, and listening to the wisdom of generations, is how timing makes her mark. She is the one you wait on, making her appointments and arriving unannounced, when one lives on the prairie, timing is all one has.
     And in Clayton’s case, the “In Perfect Time” ranch, is just about as good as timing gets.

© 2003 Timothy Anderson