Always Daddy's girls

"Here's to husbands," and I raised my paper cup of root beer and ice cream to my sister's cup.  We looked at each other and tears dribbled down our cheeks.

"How did we get here?" was her reply.


The day was the eighth anniversary of my husband's death from a particularly nasty cancer- although I'm not sure there is any other type. Every year on this anniversary and on his birthday in March, friends and family celebrate his life with his favorite- root beer floats.  I was fifty-one when he died.  Now my fifty-one year old sister shares root beer and widowhood with me.

We'd never been together to share this little ritual or this sisterhood, this sorority that no woman wants to join.  We reminisced about our marriages and laughed through our tears at what we imagined our husbands' reaction to all the recent upheaval, our dreams, our plans, our silliness.

"They's think we lost our minds," my sister said dryly. She paused and sipped. A fresh gush of tears. She looked up at me and choked over her next words,

"But somewhere, Daddy is really proud of us." 

And we sipped over the salty lumps in our throats. Public ice cream parlors are lousy venues for teary widows.



Our father wasn't perfect but somehow in the midst of imperfect parenting, misunderstandings and stormy teen years, we learned that he believed in us. His words still pop up in our vocabulary- especially "Dawn's cracked, time's a-wasted."   He taught us by his example that men treat women well- they try to provide and protect.  He taught us to ski but more importantly, he taught us to persevere and face our fears. We stood together on the mountain ridge we had just labored up and plunged together over the edge. We saw him rejoice in the sheer thrill of snow flying behind as he sped down the hill and we followed his lead.  He also taught us to maintain control, to watch out for beginners, to be considerate in an activity that promoted self indulgent hot-dogging.

By his example, we learned to work hard, to love one spouse, to commit to our children but also to stand outside on a starry night and breathe deep. Like him we love the feel of a camera in our hand and the elusive perfect picture.  He was a dairy farmer who went to art museums and took us with him. In retirement, he hauled marble on his back off a Colorado mountain and then created clocks from the rocks, which he gave away.

And somewhere, he has two daughters who are grateful, who still miss him, who try to notice the stars..

and who are really proud of him.

"Thank you, Daddy."

Making hay while the sun shines....

I came West to avoid traffic, competition and the suburban obsession with green turf lawns.  Well, not quite but those are three things I do not miss.  I hated the grass part of yard work.  I know planting beds are more work, the plants mature and take over and have to be tended or replaced, etc. Grass is "easy"- except it takes timing and chemicals and watering and well, some kind of system I never figured out and never cared about. Heck, we spent a good part of one beautiful fall on our hands and knees plugging zoysia grass only to discover it crept into the beds and turned dead brown in the fall.  It would have been fun to have a sumptuous green patch to walk on barefoot or toss bocci balls on or to have some insane bragging rights but it was not to be.   So I mowed the weeds of my suburban lawn and swore I'd move somewhere without a lawn. 

 A place with no grass, like the Wild West of South Dakota. Only God put me down in a lovely log home... on the edge of the prairie. For those of you not from prairie country, prairie is made of.... grass. Lots of long and short grass.   And South Dakota has had a spectacular season for... grass. 

It has rained all summer and we've had the most wonderful wild flowers. This would have also been the perfect year to plant trees -who knew.  The valleys are lush and green. The farmers are making hay. The horses and cattle are fat and sleek.  Everyone's happy. 

Hay bales in the neighbor's far pasture

And I have grass. Lots of grass.  

Love my grasses! 

A couple of months ago my neighbor charged up on the local vehicle of choice- a dusty all-terrain vehicle, and bellowed, "When are you gonna cut that grass?"  Add all the colorful expletives you can imagine and that's my neighbor, Wild Bill.  It isn't lost on me that my husband's nickname in college was Wild Bill, but compared to this man, he was a very introverted (and clean-mouthed) wild man.  But my current Wild Bill is a good neighbor and laughed when I indignantly informed him I had moved west to avoid grass cutting. 


Well, this year with all the rain, the grass grew and grew and now it's a fire hazard.  Firemen here only defend houses that are defensible. No trees brushing the roof, no piles of firewood on the porch- oops and certainly, no three foot sea of dry grass around the house. 



So I started up my sturdy, little second-hand tractor and made hay.

 I hit a few rocks- don't tell my brother, we share the tractor and he already thinks I've a few bolts loose.  I did buy new blades.... we're going to need them.

Rocks hiding in tall grass...

I cut a path and tried to avoid rocks! 

I pulled out rocks- this is clearly land that does NOT want to be cut into lawn ....

And I mowed grass.....over and over  in small bites since my tractor is really a LAWN tractor, not a FIELD tractor. 

This is HAY!

These are the rocks I removed and tossed out of the grass. 

These rocks?
I'll mow around them.

And as I bumped along with my lousy attitude, eyes on the ground looking for rocks, I slowly relaxed. That amazing, just cut grass smell mingled with the older scent of cut hay.  My grass is drying and the pungent green of lawn clippings gave way to the warm fragrance of golden brome grass.  I grew up on a farm. The autumns of my childhood smelled of hay cut and drying in windrows for baling.   My dad fed hay and silage to the cows and there was plenty of fields to mow before it snowed. But even in the flurry of harvest, he cut carefully around the pheasant nests- not for hunting but just to share the land with them.


So today, I made my own hay but for a sweet moment, I was a little girl back in Alaska on my dad's lap, steering his big red International Harvester tractor.

As I rode, I thought of my dad and the hours he spent cutting, raking, baling- harvesting hay. I turned the corners and the cut grass blew around me and littered my hair green and brown. My arms prickled with the dry chaff.  My hands gripped the steering wheel and buzzed from the tractor's motor. The sweat dripped down my back under the hot afternoon sun. I breathed deep the familiar scents and missed my dad. I wanted him here to tell me I was doing a good job, to tell me to watch out for that rock ahead.


But all I have are the memories of him- the memories of a outstanding farmer, a good man and my loving father.  And under the bright blue western sky making hay on my little red tractor,  it was enough.

More grass to mow....
another day.

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