Bird In Hand
#123 - It was now down to 3500 acres, a fraction of what it was once. He was losing it piece by piece.
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Bird In Hand
Looking north, the land spread out on a downslope then up again ending in more rolling hills on the far horizon.
Through the lowland, a railroad line cuts through the prairie, east to west. A siding midway across the plain serves as a pickup, or transfer point, for rolling stock and freight.
Passenger trains, the 7:10am westbound and the 5:35pm eastbound, run almost as reliably as a clock. With the wind right, you can hear them miles away.
It is when the freight trains stop at the siding that hobos, tramps, and such, can hop on.
He would love to do the same. To see the country, to go somewhere else, to see other ways of life. It seemed so tempting and easy. Just pick up and go. He knows a couple of guys who hop trains for fun. They’ve been all over.
He’d been to Denver, and St. Louis, both by car, but never really traveled much otherwise. There was always work to do.
Those railroad tracks always served to remind him that there were other worlds down the line.
He saw a picture in a magazine of a highway in California with an accompanying poem that called the highway - ‘eye candy.’
The picture was of ragged mountain peaks that towered above the high desert, with volcano mounds and a large lake with an island in it in the foreground.
The highway ran the length of it along the valley.
The poem, “Highway 395,” was short enough to write down. It was easy to remember. It read -
-- Mountains to the sky – candy for my eyes – on the road I fly – I'm free
-- A high plain’s empty sound – far off a small town – stars reach to the ground -- at night
-- A desert dawn refrain – it rolls like a train – and now the sun reigns -- on me
-- -- Time loses its grip – into my mind I slip – away – slip away
-- -- (mountains and high plains -- and deserts call my name)
He lost the note paper he wrote the poem on, but the poem and the picture remained.
He wanted to go West. He wanted to travel that highway, to see it for real.
The almost empty expanse of rolling hills and prairie grass around here is nothing like that, he thought.
The cattle business had been bad; for years. Increasing taxes and regulations. And developers. Ranchers were going under. He’d already sold half of his herd. And more of the land that had been in his family for five generations.
It was now down to 3500 acres, a fraction of what it was once. He was losing it piece by piece.
Costs ballooned up and down the line in the whole industry. He couldn’t pay his bills. He might have to sell out, bringing an end to the family line and legacy after 130 years on the prairie. And it would happen on his watch, and it was hard to bear.
He had a buyer hot to buy. It was a good deal. With the money he could square up his debts, then go anywhere and live well. Anywhere, but here.
The buyer would be there at 10 am to seal the deal.
He walked out onto the porch and into the cold air, leaned against a roof post, lifted his coffee cup to his lips, and took that first of the morning hot sip.
A freight train sounded in the distance and moved steadily west across the plain.
A deep purple tint on the eastern horizon pushed against the black of night and Venus sparkled in the pre-dawn. The last of the winter’s snow stood out in drifts and patches.
The dawn would break on a cloudless sky. It would be a big day. The end of a way of life.
Two doves on the barn rooftop began their cooing, ready for the sun’s first warming rays.
He thought of the doves as his doves, on his land. And it hit him. It's the land that is my bird in hand, not the cattle!
It was simple.
Just get out of the business. Don’t fight it. Sell all the cattle. Pay off the debts. Sell some land and with the money, raise sheep and grow hay. Both involve less overhead and ongoing expenses and have a higher profit margin.
If he could pull it off. He knew a little about haying, but he would have to learn as he went along about sheep.
He walked to the far end of the porch and looking south to the cemetery on the hill, he decided. No. No sale. He couldn’t do it.
The buyer was disappointed at not getting the whole place, but he understood the reluctance to sellout. They haggled a deal, and the buyer left happy with half of the 3500 acres and all the remaining herd.
He was happy. The remaining land was plenty for both sheep and hay, and he had startup money. The best of the land, with the year-round creek, and the grove of pecan trees, the only trees for miles around.
And his home, parts of which were over a hundred years old. He could keep the place even though great great grandad, Obed, would’ve had a fit thinking that sheep would ever be on his cattle ranch.
Highway 395 could wait.
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This is such beautiful descriptive language, Ron, "A deep purple tint on the eastern horizon pushed against the black of night and Venus sparkled in the pre-dawn. The last of the winter’s snow stood out in drifts and patches." I am there. I guess he made the best decision for himself. I understood that, but still.... that train....
"Time loses its grip – into my mind I slip – away – slip away." Been there.
Fascinating piece, Ron. It's sad that so many ranchers/farmers are facing the same decision these days. I like the compromise your protagonist strikes to respect the family heritage while adapting to the new reality. Maybe now, he'll get to travel. Those big freight cars must be a big temptation.