Winter Wallowa Co. 2002

Morning never comes early
It is late winter.
The days have a hint of spring to them,
but by sundown'v lost all aspirations of warmth...
And so the snow drifts remain,
banked against the rims above the bench.

The ranch sits two thirds the way up Doe Cr. canyon from the river,
and two miles up and across from Merlin Canyon.
It sits on a bench running the length of the canyon for two miles.
For the most part
at first glance
the house, barns, and sheds seem to fit into their surroundings,
but on closer examination it's apparent
that at this time of year-
nothing fits.

The cattle are crowded into four pastures,
with feed bunks in each,
And dilapidated hay stacks with in those.
The cattle's feet suck and slide over the soft muddy ground
leaving the Fields torn and battered.
The feed bunks were old and rotten,
patched with boards, nails, and bailing wire in an attempt to hold them more year.

The house sits in the middle of the bench,
the snow around it pushed every which way and direction with the cat.
The ground is naked where the blade has run too deep
leaving the earth torn,

Along the roads and barn yards
there are track and tire marks.
The ground left resembling
the battered,
bludgeoned,
scarred, face of a brawler
who's found the limit of his strength.

But the earth is innocent.
And like a battered wife
She takes the blows year after year
with what dignity she can;
until finally,
long before her time,
she's haggard and worn.

And year after year,
like a violent husband,
with tractor,
and truck,
skidder-
cat, and cow,
the ground is punished,
scared,
and bruised.
Degraded out of ignorance,
lack of care,
and economic necessity.

There is no love here.
No love for the land or the stock.
No respect for their limits
Or for their inocence.
The beauty of this place is forgotten,
Neglected and forced into an economic struggle,
Pride is turned to contempt for any thing that stands in the way of survival.
Wild fish, the elk, and deer.....
Good horses, good fences, grass, anything old,
the very ground it's self and it's well being
now either obsolete or irrelevant,
     Until-
for no other reason than survival,
they have to be taken into account for the sake of having something left to sustain the struggle
And to keep ahead of the bills and the taxes.

I pity this place and the people who make their living from it.
There is no chance in this generation or the next of anything dignified coming from this ground.
Only a burdensome way to make a living.

There has been something lost on these last generations of land owners,
many of them anyway.

Tradition has been lost,
stewardship has been lost,
reverence, and love has been lost.
Replaced by tractors, chemicals, and fertilizers, ear tags, hydraulic augers, television, tin pole barns, four wheelers, paved roads, high freight costs, new pickups, super markets, ready made TV dinners (just add water!) and breakfast from a box.

It's not been a concise degradation, but one made over time.
Pushed on farmers and ranchers by big business and their sales reps.

"Higher yield!

"Less work!"

"Higher gains, and more money!"

All of it fed into the agricultural main stream and quoted like gospel.
The only price of salvation being your mortal soul.....
                                                                    Sold into eternal debt.

With nothing better to say....

Days have turned to weeks, and the weeks are turning to months. St. Patrick was sent to tend to the pigs after his capture and enslavement, and he was to become one of the greatest of Saints. My father is with him, and I am here. The farm continues to sustain my animals, though we are running very low on grain.
  Tomorrow I take Harriet to the butcher. She has been of all the pigs, my very favorite. I could have taken her to the auction today and gotten a few dollars for her, but the thought of sending her through the ring (handled roughly by those fools) is too much. Some thanks that would be for all her contribution to the farm. I gave her to my butcher. I like him, and he will treat her well.
   Nine of the market hogs leave with the buyer at 11am. I fed them their last meal on the farm tonight.... I have done as best I can for them, and soon it will be done. I'm alright with this. It is my responsibility to see to them from birth until the end, the out come of their life as inevitable as mine. What is of importance is not so much the end, but the days and how we spent them. I am alright with this. 

Sat. night.... Late again.

It'd difficult to sleep on my own,
to live in such close proximity
to the dying,
makes you adopt their hours.
Nights are late,
mornings start slowly.
Afternoons are long and glorious.
It's late now.
The fire settles in it's box,
a log settles into the ashes...
This is how our days go,
burning slowly to an end.
and yet our end,
like the fire in the box,
gives something greater than the sum of ourselves...
something lasting.

Sat. night.... Late.

Late summer: Wallowa Co. 2000

In the downward, long lasting light of summer,
my portion of the world seemed to realize the end of a season.
and yet
not except it...
As if it were something not yet proven.
The first snow had come to the mountains,
and if you were early enough to rise......
Frost was a regular occurrence.
And yet the world continued unminding,
lounging in the mid day warmth....
A wholly enjoyable past time
if you weren't one to forget the story of the grass hopper and the bee....
Or the Donner party for that matter.
The shadows along the hill side were growing longer,
but there were still hours until dark.
If you knew Minum Canyon...
You would know how pretty it was,
and how feeble my attempt to describe it.
How the pine trees on the hill seemed to glow in contrast to the shadowed shady ground beneath them.
How the crickets were already singing below the rail road tracks on the other side of the river.
And how the simple joy of a black and white dog,
walking on all four legs,
for the first time in months......
could make you laugh out loud.....

Friday afternoon 11/19

Jesus falls for the first time:
We adore thee, O Christ and we bless thee. Because of they holy cross hast redeemed the world.
   Dear Jesus, You are so week and so tired/ that you can hardly walk/ but the soldiers roughly order you/ to start on your journey./ After a few steps/ You stumble and fall/ but there is no one to help You/ or to speak to you kindly.
   How I wish I could have been there/ to tell you that I love You / and was sorry for you

Recite the Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory be. etc.

Oh how sad and sore distressed,

Was that Mother highly blessed,

of the sole begotten one.

My father fell for the first time today, going into his shop. My first thought when I saw him was "why is he not wearing any shoes? He's lost his mind." But they had only fallen off. He had not been there long, only a minuet or two, but it is good to know that I can still cover twenty yards in three strides. "Oh my dear Papa, I love you and am sorry for you." 

   And now the priest has come to give him Last rights... and I have to meet him at the door.  These last days are precious beyond measure.

"Be Joyful, though you have considered all the facts" Wendell Berry-

A brief update-
   For all of you who have not heard, my dad is finishing his days here with us. Firstly I would say that, though his body is failing him daily... He is well. We all are well. For those of you who have not heard, my baby sister Brigid and her husband Tim are expecting their first child this spring. We are blessed. How could we not be? The roof over our head, that sets the parameters of  hearth and home, continues to stand. The fire in the box continues to warm us, and the love we have for each other endures. We are blessed, and we continue live right on....
   Mark Porter has joined us for the evening, he mitered the top edge of dad's casket; and though he brought no beer... I thank him for his effort.
   The Farm-
What to say about the farm? The creek has so far stayed within it's banks, and the animals as of dusk this evening had not floated away; except for one. Andy, the younger of my guardian dogs (they live with the sheep) has wandered away. I checked the "far away home" pasture where I left them, but I couldn't find him there. With a quick prayer to St. Anthony and St. Francis I left  him to their care and came home to look after dad. With any luck he will have found his way back by morning and all will be well. If he has not returned by morning then the search is on, and with any luck he will turn up in short order. If I have learned anything about these dogs is that they never wander far; I am thankful for that.
   The sheep seem to be doing well, I wish I had a slightly less soggy pasture to put them in, but for the rest of the week where they are will have to do. The rams were turned out with the flock a few weeks ago and so we should expect lambs by the beginning if April.
   The pigs-
       The pigs..... What to say about the pigs? They have taught me humility. Or rather they are teaching me daily. I often think that men (and women) in places of authority should spend a year raising pigs. The idea that we as humans have any control over the natural world, or can bend it to conform to our own standers, is summarily blown out of the water by curious, inquisitive, destructive, food hungry, deviant, comical, pigs.... I thank them for that.
      

weds. Night 11/17

It's going to rain... They tell me it's going to anyway. I'm thinking of my dear friends, family, and loved ones; Those I'm charged with looking after, The pigs, the sheep, the fields. All of this is (to me) like a library, filled from floor to ceiling. I haven't read every book, nor would I understand them all if I did. And yet, there is a sense of of order that I am not so much charged with understanding; but being in love with.

   The sounds of the house carry unhurriedly towards me from adjacent rooms. The rain on the roof, the laundry room door sliding open, the washer filling with water. Slippered feet shuffle past the door as mom goes bye. These days my father's voice is almost inaudible unless you are sitting right with him, but the muffled conversation between he and mother is a comfort. Every phrase seems a question, tentative, and filled with longing. Mom reaching to dad through the pain, and dad (from very far away) reaching back to my mother (inspite of the pain) his voice filled with concern; as much for her well being as for his own. Here is contained thirty some years of  marriage, every day past leading us here; eternity contained in a moment.