In Verdant Pastures

Western Nebraska where I grew up is more often than not quite arid. We never took rain for granted, and Rogation Days were a thing. But sometimes they get a chance for a wetter year, and this was one of those years, unlike the eastern part of the state where we live now, which is in an uncharacteristic drought. My sister texted me pictures of the green grass of home, which would have made my dad's heart glad. I thought it was appropriate this year that the Good Shepherd readings fell on Father's Day. My dad didn't herd any sheep, but he herded cattle, lots of them, for a lot of years. I was thinking of some of my favorite memories of Dad, and what came up were the times I spent riding around with him in his pickup. A silver lining to the misfortune of Mom passing away 24 years ago was that I spent more time with Dad. He used to "ride pasture" on a horse, but that takes a physical toll, and as he got older he drove instead. 

When I visited back home in the summer we usually went to Mass on Saturday evening. On Sunday morning Dad would often ask me if I wanted to go for a ride. I said yes. Sometimes I felt like I needed a step ladder to get into his big old Dodge Ram pickup, but I grabbed hold of what my sister called the "Jesus bar" over the passenger side door, and got in. Often we went up to the land in Arthur County to check on the cows grazing there. It was about 50 miles distant from the "home place", an inheritance from my maternal grandparents which I shared in common with my four siblings. Wills involving bequests of land can end up being quite convoluted, and this was no exception. Suffice it to say that if five people own a piece of land, none of them really own it. 

We would head north on Hwy. 61, and cross the dam. On one side was the big lake, McConaughy. On the other was the " little lake". Once we got across that, the landscape changed. We were in the sandhills, gently rolling hills different from the craggy limestone outcroppings of the home place. There were 30 more miles of highway, five miles of a minimum maintenance county road, then 5 miles of a gravel road, and several more miles of a prairie trail road. First we might stop by my grandparents' old house, where my aunt and uncle lived now, and visit  with them for a while and have a cup of coffee. 

Dad needed to check the well, which was pumped by a windmill. Cattle need grass, but most of all they need water, which they couldn't survive more than a day without. Then we would drive around until all of the cows and two bulls were accounted for, and appeared to be in good health. Dad would take salt blocks or mineral tubs out of the back of the pickup if they were needed. It was far from any visual signs of civilization. The summer air was warm, but light and dry. Not like the humid air of the east, where I kidded that we needed to cut a hole to breathe. There was the scent of prairie sage, and the sound of bird song. It was easy to forget my weekday cares there. Then we headed back home. Dad and I talked a little,  or we didn't. He was pretty hard of hearing, but it didn't really matter. We were good.

When we got back home we weren't finished yet. There was more pasture, and wells and cattle to check. I fastened my seatbelt and hung onto the bar when the road got rugged, which it often did. By the time we finished we had been gone several hours. 

In the last two or three years of Dad's life he got to the point where he shouldn't drive any more. My brother and sister-in-law would take him up in the sandhills sometimes, but I know he missed driving himself. I think of him a lot, and am glad I always said "Sure!" when he asked if I wanted to go for a ride.