Tag Archives: Writing

Ranch Wife Musings | After the Cold Snap

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Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on Feb. 26, 2025

This melt-off and warmup is as good as it gets in February or early March, days full of sun and the sound of water running off everything. There is mud everywhere! Relief and contentment radiate from everything, from the mellow gaze of a cow chewing her cud, to the half-closed eyes of her baby nursing, or tucked away safely on a little island of solid ground, comfortable and lazy in the warming air, perfectly happy with the ready supply of milk and hay to bed down on. The chickens have again taken to the yard, happy to leave their coop, and the cats snooze in the sun on the piles of sweet-smelling hay, greeting me with pink-mouthed yawns and arched-back stretches, rather than yowls.

What a difference a week can make!

It was one of those frigid mornings during that brutal cold snap, when just about everything gets cancelled except for ranching. Brad, covered in snow, burst into the mudroom with his arms full of a half-frozen calf. He had found it about a mile and a half from our house, and in sub-zero temperatures it doesn’t take long for a newborn calf to chill down and freeze. She wasn’t dead, but she sure wasn’t quite alive either. Her eyes were wide and staring, her little ribcage rose and fell hectically, and the occasional moo might have been a death moan.

The prognosis didn’t seem overly optimistic, but if you hand a ranch wife a sad little animal, she will try to fix it. The calf was a pretty little thing, dark brown with unique white markings on her face, white rimming her speckled pink nose, and white hairs on her ears so they looked frosted. The calf’s mama hadn’t even had a chance to clean her off before her hair froze, so she was a slippery little critter as soon as she started to thaw out. Her mouth was cold, which isn’t a good sign, but she still blinked and moved her eyes, which was hopeful. I turned that bathroom into a sauna and ran the water heater out of hot water, and little by little, her limbs loosened up. She began moving her ears, and trying to shake her head. Her mouth was still cold but her tongue had started to warm up, and a little corn syrup in her cheek helped, too.

And then, finally, after a couple of hours, she sucked my fingers. Now, that’s a great sign.

We gave her colostrum and graduated her to the calf warmer around lunchtime, where she stayed for the rest of the day and the night, and early the next morning when Brad did a heifer check he stuck her with her mom. When I was stomping around doing my chores, I poked my head into the shed. Mama cow stared at me rather defiantly, and behind her were four little knock-kneed legs. I waited, not sure it was the right calf, but the sweet brockle face peeked around mama’s hind legs. Her little ears, frosted with white hair, were perky. She took a couple hesitant steps, and then made a little baby frisk, all four legs coming off the ground in a clumsy expression of infant playfulness. It warmed the heart on a frigid day.

Another cow had lost her calf the day before, so I let my bottle calf get hungry (a powerful motivator), then tromped down to the calving shed with her. She walked with her head right next to my knees, the way a calf follows her mom. The poor little thing, now a month old, had been orphaned as soon as she was born, so she never got to nurse, but she always would suck my fingers, and she let me lead her nose over to the heifer’s udder. No coaxing was required. God’s design in these baby critters is so evident, in the beautiful instinct that He has instilled in them, and their incredible resilience in spite of their fragility. It was a treat to see her white-tipped tail whipping back and forth as she got that first real mama’s milk, and a week later it is a delight to see her content and satiated, wandering lazily over to nurse, her chapped nose healed up now that she is no longer licking it, and her recognition of me is quiet and friendly rather than desperate and heartbreaking. The brockle-faced calf is still doing well, and another dozen calves have joined them uneventfully. Life is good.

A cold snap brings a strange sort of survival mode to the ranch, alternating between having more to do than ever and having nothing to do because nothing can be done. Sometimes all that can or needs to be done is to put feed in front of animals and keep the water open, and wait for the weather to change or for something to go wrong. Because when things go wrong, they go wrong in catastrophic fashion. But, on the other side, those things that went right are sweeter than ever. I love going down to the nursery pens and just watching. Watching the springtime hubbub of mamas and babies, hearing the warm stillness punctuated with baby moos and cows talking back. The sloppy noises of hooves in mud. The sweet rustle of mouthfuls of hay. All the little suckling noises, or a bony calf head thumping an udder. Their mamas are so patient. I love watching as a nursing calf comes up for air and stands in a milk stupor with its tongue stuck out. It is sweet to watch brand new, first-time mamas learn to mother.

From the other side of a cold snap, it is amazing how much went so very right.

Wringing Sunlight

Posted on by under Photography, the homestead, Writing

Originally printed in the July/August 2024 issue of Down Country Roads Magazine

The sun-drenched days are already growing shorter, and before too long the shadows will lengthen a bit and remind us that summertime doesn’t last forever. But it is still the season to wring out every drop of sunlight from each blessed day, drinking in the warmth and the light that is so scarce at other times of the year. 

Wringing it out, wringing it out, soaking it in and wringing it out.

Wringing it out, like savoring those early morning sunrises.  The cool freshness of the day’s beginning, stirring the curtains and bringing the outside in. A woodsy ramble when the grass is still damp. The first breath of heat when the sun is yea-high. Garden puttering, throwing water, pulling weeds, up to the elbows in productivity and partnership with earth and sun. The snap of towels hanging on the line to dry, or my husband’s snap-front shirts. The heat of sun on uncovered head, the quiet, rhythmic work of laundry day. The cool of grass under bare feet. Digging my toes into good, black dirt. The low drone of bees busy in the flowers, the sweet singing of the crickets. The comical play-acting of the killdeer, the swift flight of the barn swallow, the bubbling up and overflowing melody of the bobolink in the hayfield, rivaling the meadowlark as the summertime songster, dipping and diving in the alfalfa, a little black-and-white-and-yellow speck of a songbird.

Oh, these days!

When the sun nears the evening sky and sinks low, the ridge to our west casts first the house, then the barn, then the hayfield, into its lengthening shadow which races to the horizon. Far to the east and a little to the south, Sheep Mountain Table gleams pink in the afterglow. The windows of the house get thrown open, bringing the coolness in, and nighttime falls, softly and sweetly, and the first of the summer stars appear in the pink and lavender sky.

We take the warm, sweet memories of these days with us into the shorter days of winter.

The sweetness, like the first of the sun-ripened, still-warm tomatoes, bursting in your mouth, fresh off the vine. The sweetness, like a cold glass of sun-brewed iced tea after a sweaty morning of work. The sweetness, like a pail of wild-harvested fruit and a glittering, gleaming row of jelly jars, still piping hot. The sweetness, like the sound of rain, gentle rain, sweet rain, and the low roll of thunder.

And then, maybe best of all, is the intoxicating sweetness of the sun-warmed pines. Can you smell it? It brings back impressions of my earliest childhood, recalls some of my happiest memories in what would one day become my home. I remember piling out of our minivan, myself and my three sisters and parents, piling out at the end of a 1000-mile journey, piling out at the top of a sun-baked hill in the glorious middle of nowhere near Hermosa, piling out and breathing deep of that wonderous smell – The pines! And there at the end of a little gravel sidewalk was a house made of rough-cut lumber with my grandparents waiting for us, and a joyful two weeks of summer vacation ahead, to be filled with hikes and rambles and Grandma’s 24-hour dill pickles. Almost ten years ago, we came and never left. But my heart still skips a beat when I smell the piney, resiny breath of summertime.

We can do without the havoc-wreaking hail that summer brings, or the dry lightning that sparks a fire, but somehow those aren’t the things we remember in the deeps of January. We remember and yearn for the sunrises and the sunsets and the sunkissed faces. And we long to wring out the sunlight, wring it out and drink it deep.

So, take the ramble, taste the wild plums, listen to the meadowlark, watch the sunsets and hunt the wildflowers. Wring it out, every last drop of beautiful summertime sunlight. It is days like this that get us through the long, dark nights of winter.

Dreams and Reality

Posted on by under Agriculture and Ranching, country life, Writing

At the beginning of a new year, I always look back at the old year. So I pulled out the box in which I keep the hard copies of articles I’ve written. God is so good.

Taking this simple photo brought a happy lump to my throat. It is so surreal to see my words and photographs in print, and this isn’t even everything that was printed last year.

Looking back at the old year, it is natural to look back even further, and it is truly delightful to see the ways that God has prepared me and opened doors and answered prayers and to see the seeds of dreams as far back as 20 years ago. I fell in love with the written word as a youngster, at about the age of 12, and the writer’s dream is (almost) the first dream I can remember from childhood. The other dream I remember was that I would grow up and live in South Dakota and have horses. Little did my 9-year-old self living in Illinois know how that would turn out…

But these photos of magazines, magazine articles, and newspaper columns represent years of hoping, praying, waiting, and even forgetting. Until the time was right. And then God opened doors.

It just makes me think…how much can happen in such a short span of time. A year ago, writing was still a dream. How much can change in how little time. How different life can look in just a year, or five years. We can get so caught up in things that aren’t going right, or disappointments, or failures, and yet God can and does use those things to build our courage and our trust in His goodness and provision, and when He chooses, He can make things happen.

These little articles aren’t anything spectacular. They sure aren’t particularly prestigious. Other than two articles last year published in MaryJane’s Farm and Bella Grace, which are nationally distributed magazines, my other articles are in local papers and magazines with limited readership. And do you want to know something? I love it. I love that it is my friends and family and community that I am writing to and for. I love hearing from neighbors that they read my column, and I love interviewing locals and friends and having the privilege of telling their stories. And I love how God has given me an outlet for something I have loved for so long.

How humbling.

Advent 2023 | Celebrations and Stones

Posted on by under Writing

Tomorrow is the first Sunday of Advent, launching us officially into the countdown to Christmas. Although culturally we tend to rush through the next few weeks, packing the calendar so full we live in whirling blur, although culturally we have turned Christmas into simply an excuse for rampant consumerism, there is so much more to this season, and so much need for this time. I hope you enjoy this article that I published at the beginning of Advent last year. I wanted to share it again, since it really speaks what is on my heart.

This time of the year is possibly my favorite. Admittedly, I love this whole season, from Thanksgiving to the New Year and experience what some might term a childish excitement as the festivities begin to take place. So many of my fondest memories take place in the period of time between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and so many of my favorite family times have been interwoven with the traditions and customs that became part of the fabric of my family. Even though the world around us goes crazy with all the frivolous and self-centered consumerism that has become the unfortunate hallmark of the American Thanksgiving-to-Christmas season, there is so much to embrace and to firmly fix in our lives. We set aside a day to remember God’s goodness and thank Him for His blessings, and then we intentionally fix our eyes on the hope, love, joy, and peace that the Advent season remembers.

In a culture that increasingly tries to erase all evidence of the Christian faith from public expressions during these historically overtly Christian holidays, I think it is more important than ever that families rally themselves around traditions that draw their eyes Heavenward.

I think of the traditions my family had growing up…We had our big family Thanksgiving, usually shared with someone from our church, and in the next few days afterwards, we would usher in the Advent season by putting up our tree. Out would come all the old decorations, the lights, and the treasured Advent books we would read year after year as a family. I think of the Christmas programs at church, the traditional songs and hymns, the somber and joyful candlelight services we would attend at my grandparents church, The Little White Church in Hill City. I think of our Christmas morning Bible reading, reading through Luke’s account of the birth of Christ.

Unfortunately, America in general but even many branches of the Protestant church have either given up on Christian tradition altogether, or given up on fully appreciating and applying the traditions of the past. In the culture at large, I think it is pretty obvious why…The “old ways” have been systematically devalued and the church and expressions of faith have been essentially removed from the culture. For two religious holidays, what’s left for a culture that hates God? Nothing, really.

In the church, though, this forsaking of tradition is more complicated. It is sad to me that a lot of people find the Christmas season just another part of the year, the traditions are just kind of boring and old hat, and there’s sort of a collective eye-roll at the traditional Christmas hymns. One facet, I think, is a rather poorly-reasoned idea that too much tradition and it might become meaningless and rote.

What a loss of such a gift! How silly, to avoid a good thing because it might become less than what it should be. And can’t we having meaninglessness and roteness just as easily without our “traditional practices?” Maybe we should work on our heart attitudes instead.

Traditions of the faith join us with other Christians across the globe, through the centuries and millennia even, since we don’t just find our spiritual origin in the Christ of Christmas, but in God’s covenants with the Nation of Israel, thousands of years ago. I look at how God’s people committed His works to their memory for future generations, two big ways come to mind: Feasts and monuments. Celebration and stones.

When the Israelites were instructed on the keeping of the Passover Feast after God’s delivered them from Egypt, this was why:

And when your children say to you, ‘What do you mean by this service?’ you shall say, ‘It is the sacrifice of the Lord’s Passover, for he passed over the houses of the people of Israel in Egypt, when he struck the Egyptians but spared our houses.’” And the people bowed their heads and worshiped. (Exodus 12:26-27)

And when years later the Israelites were under the command of Joshua, God brought them over the River Jordan, rolling back the flood-swollen river waters so that the whole nation could cross in safety. Joshua, instructed by God, directed the Israelites to take twelve stones out of the riverbed of the Jordan as they crossed over and to construct a memorial, so future generations might not forget the Lord’s power and His goodness.

And those twelve stones, which they took out of the Jordan, Joshua set up at Gilgal. And he said to the people of Israel, “When your children ask their fathers in times to come, ‘What do these stones mean?’  then you shall let your children know, ‘Israel passed over this Jordan on dry ground.’  For the Lord your God dried up the waters of the Jordan for you until you passed over, as the Lord your God did to the Red Sea, which he dried up for us until we passed over,  so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the hand of the Lord is mighty, that you may fear the Lord your God forever.” (Joshua 4:20-24)

Christmas and the Advent season should be a time of celebration for the Christian. A time when we can proclaim the joy we have in Christ to a world walking in darkness. And a half-hearted participation hardly communicates joy. So set up your family monuments to the goodness of God and celebrate with friends and family. Celebrate Advent. Find a live Nativity to attend. Cultivate traditions in your family. Set up your cherished Creche and ponder its significance. Sing the old songs and really taste the words. Don’t just “make memories” for the sake of the memories, but counteract the temptation to be passive at this time of year and make memories to the glory of God!

We need our celebrations and we need our stones. Celebrations to bring us into a heart-posture of thanks and praise to God, and stones to be a visual reminder of Who it is we celebrate.

Tickled Plum to Death

Posted on by under country life, Writing

Just before church started this morning, as I was getting my piano music all lined out for service, a gal from church came up to me. “I just had to tell you how much I enjoyed your article in MaryJane’s Farm.”

Well, how fun is that! I mean, sure, obviously a lot of people read MaryJane’s Farm, but surely no one I know does!

Shortly after we moved to South Dakota, I wrote an article for MaryJane’s Farm, a magazine for women and by women, related to all things gardening and home-building and simple, country living. It really is a lovely magazine, and one I’ve read on and off for a number of years. I wrote another article for the magazine earlier this year, and it hit newsstands in early May. So you’d better hurry up and get your copy if you want to read this fine piece of literature!

It seems fitting somehow that the theme of the first magazine was “Home is Where the Heart Is,” and my article reflected on God bringing my family to South Dakota, and the theme of this magazine is “Coming Home,” and my article reflected on God’s kindness in providing a husband. Looking back over the years in between those two articles, it just amazes me and fills me with a smile to see what God has done!

It just tickles me plum to death.

Goodbye, Summer

Posted on by under Writing

Goodness gracious, where did the summer get to? How does it happen, when I have the most to write about, I have the least time/inclination to do so? It really is hard to sit inside on a computer when the sun is shining outside. But fall is a-comin’, and that means earlier evenings and a general turnaround of what my summer routine is like. I look forward to getting back into writing this blog, which has been such a delightful constant for the last 4 years!

To catch anyone up (briefly) who may be interested, this summer has been a blessedly full time, busy with work at the greenhouse, some shifts at the fire station as time allowed, time with friends (a priority in the summer), wonderful quantities of hiking, a visit from a former college classmate of mine, a trip to Bozeman for the Biblical Counseling Conference and some hiking and camping along the way. I can’t promise anything, but my goal is to play some catch up on this blog, at least as far as the hiking articles go. We discovered some gems this summer, and I’d hate to miss publishing them!

I didn’t think it was possible for so much to go by so fast and so pleasantly. And now it is quickly becoming fall. September 23 is only two weeks away!

So…goodbye, summer. Goodbye to the warm mornings, hot afternoons, and cool evenings. The satisfaction of sweat, the joy of cold water to quench work-won thirst. Goodbye to the feisty, mighty summer storms that kept us green all season. Goodbye to the sound and smell of cows on the pastures around the house, to the cacophony of insects and birds, and the rainbow of wildflower color. Goodbye to the resiny smell of the pines in the sunlight, a perfume which takes me back to my childhood and the joy of getting to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, walking up their then-dirt sidewalk, to the loving, smothering embrace of my Grandpa and his plaid shirt.

With the summer goes the long days, the sense that time is almost standing still, the late nights waiting for the sun to set and dragging the days activities into the late, late evening. With summer goes the delightful, tantalizing sense of freedom, which I love immensely but probably isn’t very good for me.
IMG_9756eBut each season has its joys. If the joy of summer is the warmth and the long days, the joy of autumn is the cool and the cozy evenings. If the joy of summer is the song of insects and the colors of wildflowers, the joy of autumn is the whispering leaves and their vibrant displays.

So, goodbye, summer. And welcome, autumn.