The Reason: Ode to the Range Cow

She knows the feeling of being taken for granted. Her entire life is spent doing all the work for zero appreciation, and then, another year begins and she starts over. She’s raising her babies while battling all the forces stacked against her with pretty much no help…unless the ranch she lives on comes with good weather and a good cowboy.

If you have mingled at all in the ranch crowd, you know that they work hard. You’ve heard them talk about being up all night watching heifers, or feeding hay in the snow and busting ice, or getting up in the dark to spend all day sweating in the branding pen. But it’s interesting to ponder why they do this. Why they drag their kids along in a feed pickup and why they learned to rope, still ride a horse to work, hunt coyotes, watch the markets, or can use whatever is laying around on the ground to fix a water pipe or leaky trough. Ever thought about it? It’s all because of her.

Yes, her. The mama cow. She’s the reason for all this. Some may argue and try to convince you that ranchers do what they do for money. That green is the bottom line. Well, they’re right…green grass, that is. If I may be bold, I think I can say in general that ranching as a business is successful if that particular ranch is able to continue operating the following year. Nobody gets filthy rich doing it. (They might get filthy working, or rich selling the place, but that’s beside the point.) So why keep it up? Well, somebody has to help that ol’ mama cow.

Each spring, when the calves are vaccinated and branded, the mama’s usually receive some sort of topical treatment for parasites like ticks and flies, which can really affect her body condition if not held at bay somehow. And every fall, when her calf is weaned and shipped off, she is run through the squeeze chute and given an exam. There’s an unwritten checklist that gets ticked off for each cow. First, is she pregnant? Then, her age and body condition and any abscess or skin condition is looked after, sometimes in sandy country her feet get trimmed, and of course, she gets a round of shots as well. She may not enjoy this. (Ever met a mom who looked forward to her yearly doctor visit? Me neither.)

All the time in between, the cattle are out to pasture. They are always provided with abundant water, a salt block to lick, and a mineral supplement in some form. Seasons that the country is lacking in protein and forage don’t usually mean famine for her because of that feed pickup I mentioned earlier. The feed is made of grains and things like cottonseed hulls, but it’s the protein percentage that really matters. We call these processed cubes ‘cake’. Think Marie Antoinette. Yes, when the range is looking poorly, we simply “Let them eat cake!”  If there is snow on the ground, and they can’t get to the dry grass that keeps them full, then in addition to the protein supplement, they get hay as well.

Put simply, the mama cow is the success or failure of the ranch. If she isn’t in good condition during breeding season, she won’t produce a calf. If she isn’t in good shape during calving, she will lose her baby or raise a scrawny one. If she gets to looking poor at any time during her pregnancy, it spells trouble. So taking good care of her year round is priority number one. Good cowboys and conscientious ranchers do their nutrition homework. They’ll go to the trouble of having their grass and soil lab tested to know how best to compensate for what it lacks, just for her. 

But contrary to what most folks think, a cow isn’t just a cow. Her pedigree is important in a couple of ways to ensure that she bears a healthy calf and raises him good and big by shipping time. Ranchers select a beef breed that is best for their type of terrain and climate. A rancher has to weigh out all the different factors that effect the bottom line if he wants to raise cattle that are both marketable and suited to the climate they’ll have to live in. Everybody loves Angus beef, but is an Angus cow going to raise a good, heavy calf in the desert…or up at the timberline…or in the swamp? There are so many breeds of beef cattle, each one with a slight advantage over another in different conditions.  But that’s only one way pedigree matters.

The really important thing about a mama cow is her wisdom. Consider what it is that she has to contend with on a given day: she has to find her own nourishment each day while also eating enough to produce milk and grow the calf she’s carrying; go to water once, perhaps twice a day; weather any and all storms; and avoid predators and pests.  All this takes what we humans would call ‘survival skills’, an iron will to thrive despite difficulty, and a heap of good ol’ common sense.



Take the average range cow on the New Mexico high plains. This is pretty good grass country, if it rains. But the wind! More constant than the unblinking sun. She lives in an 8 section pasture, let’s say. It’s boundaries are defined by a fence, but it’s the lay of the land that she has memorized. Every day, sometimes twice, she makes a pilgrimage from grazing to water and back. In the windy spring, when her calf is small, she can’t take him all that way. So the herd elects a babysitter who skips getting water. This cow stays with all the babies while the others go to water. Later, once the calves are bigger, everybody can go.

That cow knows a hollow spot where she can lay down to shelter her baby from the West wind, but she’d need to take him plumb to the other side for a similar spot if the wind changed. She keeps a running tally on what’s green and growing in each region of her home pasture, and she teaches her calf, too. There are certain grasses that are especially nutritious that she chases all over, growing up tender in the wash-outs and gullies where the rain puddles sit a little longer, or on the slope of a particular hill where the sun doesn’t burn it to a crisp right away. Predators are really only a serious danger in bad weather or when her baby is small, and that’s where a good cowboy and his rifle come in mighty handy. She’s clever though. She won’t let any ol’ predator get a bite if she can help it.

She knows the wind. She can tell what’s coming before it gets close, whether it is a coyote or a summer thunderstorm. A mama cow finds water with her elephant-like memory and her hound-like nose, but she endures the elements like a saint. She’s tender with her newborn calf but mean as a snake to anything that gets close to it. I don’t believe I have ever heard anyone describe her as fierce, cunning, resourceful or courageous, but she really is. All of these qualities are essential to the success of a ranching operation, because they ensure that her calf thrives through the seasons. Banking on her wisdom, a ranch owner can throw the dice to start another year.

The role of the mama cow is to raise the next generation well and to just be herself. City folks snicker and think cows are ‘cute’ or funny, but her nature is somewhat unpredictable. Along with her qualities and her wisdom, she possesses certain other traits that aren’t so admirable. These traits are what earn her names like ‘Old Bat’, ‘Hussy’, ‘Wench’, and other unmentionables. You don’t defy the elements and successfully raise a calf every year by being sweet all the time.

Silly urban myths such as milking range cows (as if beef breeds and dairy breeds weren’t at opposite ends of the bovine spectrum), or believing that cows are being exploited as if they wouldn’t be living out on the range having calves anyway, are an insult to this creature. She’s no domestic at heart, so to speak. (History backs this up. The cattle left behind by Spanish explorers became just as wild as the horses that became the Mustang. But no one petitions the government to let them run wild on the range!) If left to herself  that ol’ mama cow will inevitably turn wild. In such cases, a cowboy needs more than a feed truck to keep track of her. He needs a horse and a rope, and maybe a cow dog or two. Whether he calls himself a Cracker, a Puncher, a Cow Hunter, a Paniolo, a Gaucho, a Charro, or a Buckaroo, his job is to take care of her. The good ol’ mama cow. Without her, he is as relevant as a medieval knight and his skills merely a circus sideshow. Thank goodness for the humble range cow.

And lest we forget this lesson about taking her for granted, we can behold it all in black and white, because after all, the cowboy, cowhorse, and cowdog all need a reason.




Tired Horses

A view of the land no one else can comprehend and a perspective on life that few can appreciate begins with the working partnership between a man and his horse. I can’t think of many occupations that offer this anymore. Back-country outfitters, mounted policemen, and cowboys are the only ones left in modern times. Why sure, there’s an entire equine industry that employs thousands of people, involves hundreds of thousands of horses and millions of dollars, but these man-horse relationships aren’t the working kind. Racing, rescuing, showing, breeding and training horses is a wonderful way to make a living-and it is certainly work!- but it’s not exactly what I mean.

I mean the sharing of everything, from success to failure; harsh weather conditions, youth and old age, injuries, proud moments and shameful mistakes. Men and horses who work together know from direct experience the value of compassion and grace, perseverance, a positive attitude, and even ambition. They also know the cost of carelessness, of a bad temper, and laziness…and all this they have learned from each other. I’m not glorifying animals to being equal to human beings. But I would be the first to admit that horses are nearly always honest, and people would do well to learn what they can from them. That’s why men who live and work with horses, not as their project but as partners, are so unique in the world.

It strikes me as sad that almost everyone, except the very rich or very poor, had this kind of wisdom once. Now it’s such a small handful of folks, and the number is dwindling. Horses used to move everything and carry everyone, they were needed by mankind and now they’re not. Now, only a few people still need horses to get their work done. And the cowboy is one.

Cowboy work can’t be done without horses, and though modern methods and machines try all the time to make a hand, they can’t really hold a candle to even an average ranch horse. Thanks to the big budgets of commercial beef operations, cowboys all have pickups and trailers to haul their horses to the back side of the big pastures. (See a good article on the topic of mechanized ranching by my adopted sister here.) As a result, ranch horses now can retire at the age of twelve or fourteen instead of eight or ten. Despite using machines for some ranching tasks, this is still a hard line of work for men and horses.

When you were a kid and they told you to do something hard because it ‘builds character’, you resented the phrase, but now you know it’s true. It’s the same for horses. Wet saddle blankets (a cowboy term that means simply making a horse work) and long miles (covering country gathering cows, checking fence, or hunting in the back country) builds character in them. You can lope a horse in the sand for hours every day, and all you’ll end up with is green horse that is very fit. It’s when you challenge him to do something to help you, when you learn to depend on each other, that you create the conditions that will ‘build character’.

Ranch horses know their job. Most of them show a good deal of common sense and are what the horse industry calls ‘gentle’. Cowboys call it ‘broke’. One cowboy may take time with his horses and teach them what he expects of them, while another may just ask the horse to go to work and never even bother naming them. Some cowboys like their horses  ‘cowboy broke’ while others like to get them ‘ol’ man gentle’. Some will study and eventually become true horsemen, and some will be able to get on anything and ride it and never learn a thing more. Cowboys care about their gear (tack) for different reasons; some for the look and the statement it makes, others for how it fits their horse. And that may be the most telling thing when it comes to learning whether or not he truly works with a horse for a living day in and day out.

My husband’s two work horses, ‘Yeller’ and ‘Champ’, are both under the age of seven. They aren’t broke for women, kids and old men, but he would trust his life to them. Their manes and tails are matted most of the time, and neither one is real people friendly. Both of them are the horses some other guy didn’t want to ride. But, they hobble, tie, and shoe easily; load and unload from any trailer; and take pretty much anything in stride…just maybe not from the ground. Haven’t gotten either one to eat out of my hand yet, but they like my husband.



Yeller had to trust Cody to free his feet from a sheep-wire panel once; to nurse him back to health from a snake bite; and to get porcupine quills out of his nose. And in return, Yeller gives him all he has every time Cody asks. Champ has only been in the string for a few months, but already he has taken care of my husband in a dangerous situation when other horses might have panicked and gotten someone hurt. Both of them worked to get cattle out of the path of a grass fire, getting too close for comfort and breathing in more than their share of dust and smoke.




At the end of a long day that started in the dark of morning, when my husband unloads his horse, they’re both tired. Tired from doing the same work, the same way, together. They were partners and it took more than just energy out of them. He unsaddles, and hangs his wet saddle blanket on the rack where it can dry. He rubs his horse down, washes his back if it’s a hot day, and turns him loose with the others. The first thing the horse does is sniff the ground, his knees buckle, and he rolls. Then he goes to the water trough and takes a deep drink. And he throws up his head, ears erect, looking for Cody. Before my husband can take his boots off and stretch out in the recliner, he takes the time to feed his horses and tend to anything else they need. He’s beat. I can see it in his eyes and in his horse: both of them are sore and need some rest. But I also see the other things: the triumph and the trust, their inter-dependent sense of accomplishment and pride. One a master, one a servant, but which? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

Maybe all this would be difficult to appreciate for one who has only ever used machines to get their work done. But since I know firsthand this blessing, I think the world could use more tired men with tired horses.


“El Dia de los Muertos”

I awake on that morning with dread. I know as I slam down my third cup of strong, strong coffee that I must be on my A-game or else. I won’t see the inside of my house until (probably) late tonight and will not have time to rest or breathe or sit, and I will be making a 100 mile round trip, not counting the miles I’ll be driving from place to place when I get there; and that I must be home in time to feed my family dinner.

It’s El Dia de los Muertos…but not the one in October. It’s the day of my monthly supply run to the ‘big city’ of Roswell.

Today I start early, and it’s not like other days. I’ll be leaving the borders of the ranch, crossing the cattle guard into the wide world, and therefore, I must wear make-up and clean clothes and even jewelry. Today the children must also wear clean clothes. It seems  a monumental achievement upon first glance in the mirror.

But I press on. Fueled by caffeine and the adrenaline that arises when you behold your to-do list early in the morning, I set to my work. By 8 a.m. the children are fed, dressed, and almost loaded in the pickup. I have loaded up the trash to take out. I do a flight check. Daiper bag. Snacks. Drinks. Grocery list. Sam’s list. Feed store list. Hardware list. Sunglasses. Money. All the while, I know I forgot something. Oh! yes. I need to get dressed.

Amid the fussing in the backseat and the rattle of the pickup cab (dirt roads inevitably cause this), I pray as we roll out. I ask for guidance, for protection, and most of all, for energy.

When we reach the highway, the children are usually lulled to sleep. (Dirt roads cause this, too.) The radio soothes my nerves for the next hour and a half, interrupted only by a half dozen phone calls, three of which are from my cowboy.

They ring to the tune of: “Since you’re already in town, can you run over and pick up that oxygen and acetylene? can you grab me a couple pairs of gloves? will you run over to the Paul’s Vet Supply and check on that stuff I ordered? I’ve been meaning to go do it but I didn’t wanna make a special trip.”  Sure, I say. No problem, honey. But in my head I’ve calculated the time this will take*, not to mention budget adjustments. I mentally gag down the impulse to remind him that these things require unloading and loading two toddlers and taking them inside each establishment…every mom knows what kind of mental sharpness, spiritual peace, and outer calmness this requires.

When I hit the first stop light, I go into a sort of survival trance. As I make my way from one end of town to the other, I attempt to remain human and again, I mutter a prayer. I planned my route based on the lists, and decide to save Wal Mart for last because they’ll be open after 5 p.m.

You may snicker at me by now, saying to yourself that this would be simply the work of the morning for you. True, I am a slow and methodical creature. I know I am not the woman who can whiz through town, whistling as she goes about her errands, who stops at the end to get her nails done to reward herself. But then, many do not understand how much time it takes to do hostage negotiations with one carseat, let alone two.

Although my kids are tough little things, they can’t go without food. So, there’s that. Fast food or walk in and sit, lunch is no walk in the park.

By the time I get to Wal Mart and move as much of the other purchases from the day in the front seat (it’s Roswell, after all), I am dragging. The kids are whining. I pray again. We get inside and have to go back for my grocery list. We get started shopping when a bathroom break is unavoidable for me. So we park it and go behind those doors and re-emerge to this: “Sweetie, are you sure you don’t have to go right now? Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure.”




On with the list! I start by sauntering through the store behind the cart, finally producing the magic volume reducers (pacifiers) to prevent the entire store from echoing with their  renditions of Marty Robbins. At last I see my list is complete. The basket is mounded high with a month’s worth of groceries. The children are rubbing their eyes and the bags under mine are probably too scary to look at. Like a Titan, I brace myself behind the heavy basket and push it toward the checkout line, where I wait another 45 minutes, by which time the children’s voices have regained their volume and their determination to make their complaints heard is turning heads. That’s when I hear: “Mama, I need to go tee tee.”

Once we have gone we return to the checkout line again, and it is at last our turn. I know we have to get out of here ASAP. I unload the entire basket onto the conveyer belt. The blip…blip…blip…blip… makes me break into a nervous sweat because of the aforementioned budget calculations (and silent prayers are said). When at last I slide the plastic and collect a five-foot-long receipt to begin the trek back to the pickup, I am now running solely on prayer.

It’s almost dark outside and I push the basket around the parking lot two times before remembering where I parked. That’s a tough one to admit but it’s true. This ranch gal can find a bull brushed up in a ten section pasture, but she loses her truck in the Wal Mart parking lot.


The children are strapped in, and provided with snacks and a drink. I breathe a thankful sigh, thinking how I don’t have to unbuckle them and drag them out until we get home.  The groceries are sorted and packed into coolers and loaded in the bed. I start the engine relieved that I only have to fuel up before I head home. The phone rings. “Honey, since you’re already there, can you pick up a couple cans of Copenhagen?” I hesitate. I sigh. I say, Sure, babe. And I turn up the radio to keep the kids awake for one last excursion, into the gas station this time. El Dia de los Muertos…at least, that’s how I feel.

The ride home is when the exhaustion sets in. The kids are asleep at the wrong time of evening, and will awaken when we arrive so they can play until 10 p.m. I peer into the dusk, seeing foxes and deer in the edge of the headlights. I must keep my eyes open! The rest of the evening is a blur, except for…

…my cowboy. He greets me with a kiss and a smile. He helps me unload and put away the items that replaced his salary. Dinner. Clean up. Try to keep awake until the little ruffians are ready for bed. Then, wash off what’s left of the make-up, and go to bed.

Folks, I’d rather be boiled in oil. Or be taken captive by a band of Comanches. Or be staked out in the sun on top of an ant bed. Or…just about anything than go to town on the monthly supply run. That’s why I call it “El Dia de los Muertos” because not even coffee can keep me alive until the sun goes down. I’m a goner before even leaving the house!

It’s grace and grace only that carries me and my littles through the day. As much as I dread it, it’s really a day spent relying totally on God at every turn. So in reality, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I pity the folks who run into me in town. Chances are I didn’t even recognize them! I’m darting about in survival mode, usually not realizing that God’s grace could relieve the stress too, if I would let Him. That’s something that I will have to work on. I can’t avoid the ‘day of the dead’, but it doesn’t have to kill me if the life I have in Christ comes to the surface.


*Some of these instances are not typical of my town run. In defense of my cowboy, he tries very hard not to make me run all his errands. Since he has accompanied me on these supply runs before, and since the title of this post is so fitting, he prefers to run his own errands ever since our second kiddo was born. So that’s largely hypothetical, but it does happen…to all of us ranch gals, every now and then. 😉

The Wagon

Sun up used to mean the crackle of a fire and clanging of cast iron, horses snorting, the smell of wood smoke and the feel of spring chill. There was the otherworldly jingle of trace chains and the creak of well-worn wooden axles as the chuck wagon set out for the day. The cowboys caught their horses and rode out for the gather, leaving the cook and the wrangler to break camp and jingle the horses along to the spot where they would be branding. They had a lot to do to have the mid-day meal ready on time and the remuda close for the change of horses.

They had to choose the right spot, and keep the horses grazing nearby. Then, they’d gather wood, un-hitch the team, and get the fires going. I fancy they started with boiling a pot of beans, and putting on a pot of coffee; then when the coals were right they’d start a dutch oven of sourdough biscuits. Comforting as that sounds, it would be a heck of a lot of work in the wind.

I can imagine it as if I had been there, on the wagon, a century ago. But now, it’s the purr of a diesel pickup and that rattle of a stock trailer leaving the house before the sun. The horses are caught and saddled in the trance of pickup headlights, and hauled to the drop-off point where the gather will begin. And me? Well, folks, I’m not on the wagon this year…again. I guess my role is as the wrangler. I help the cook, and I wrangle toddlers.

Here’s the ‘remuda’ us ranch gals are in charge of. Future flanking partners coming up the ranks!

Ranching may have changed over the last century. But some things haven’t. A hundred years ago, the man hired as chuck wagon cook was the second-in-command. He had to be the most savvy, had to know the bosses’ mind and know his way around the country. Not only did he need to be a good cook, but he needed to know the in’s and out’s of the works so that everything ran smooth. The morale of the crew during spring and fall works could often hinge on the quality and timing of the meal, because they may be working in freezing wind or killer heat or even rain. A good meal really does a lot for the attitude of a man working in the weather.

These days, the chuck wagon cook is usually the bosses’ wife. And she fills the exact same job requirements as a chuck wagon cook would have back in the day. Only now, she uses her SUV or a ranch pickup, and packs the back with food she made in her kitchen. Her day begins at 3:30 or 4 a.m., and it’s a series of oven timers, stirring, tasting, and lots of toting tea jugs and coolers back and forth. They keep the coffee hot, take cookies to the branding pen, and then serve a full-on catered lunch. I’ve had the privilege of working alongside a few of these women. Let me tell you, they are invaluable. Their ability to adjust, and to accommodate the inevitable change of plans, is truly a super-power. Besides that, they do it with heart and they care about the quality of their work. I used to view their role as something like a prison sentence, because all that mattered to me then was which horse I would use and if I roped good. I have a new perspective now. Their job isn’t glamorous, often thankless and definitely taken for granted, but if they didn’t do it as well as they do, the works would be miserable. If you haven’t seen it, I wrote about this special gal in my post called “The Ranch House Rose”. 

Here is one such rare lady, a Ranch House Rose in her prime. Funny thing about these Roses, they don’t like pictures! Have to be especially stealthy to capture one on camera. 

Two weeks have gone by since the crew started branding, and between us and neighbors, we will be doing it for maybe a month or more. Branding time is when the old glory and romance of ‘the cowboy’ still shines out, and I confess I do love it most of all. I expect I will someday rejoin the crew. But until then, like the wrangler who had to help the cook with the wagon, I have my share of lessons to learn first. I guess my horse and I will baby sit, and I’ll tote coolers and tea jugs and look on from the other side of the fence…for now.





Hard Lessons

Ah! The anguish of heart. I still feel the terror of the moment, although now I’m much older. That helpless feeling you feel when you can’t stop a tragedy, and goodbye is forever still pounds in my chest.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I was not yet nine years old. It had snowed a couple days before, leaving drifts on the ground. When it snowed, my granddad plowed the road with his tractor. He hadn’t plowed down the road to the West that went into the horse pasture, and no one had driven that way since the snow. Perhaps it’s untouched purity is what drew me in that direction. Being so young, making tracks in the snow was always fun.

Most of what happened that day was a blur. I’m sick to my stomach even remembering. My mom and I had homeschooled all morning and by evening time I was needing to get outside. Kids get cabin fever in a shorter time than adults do, so my mom sent me to call in the horses. She knew they would all be up at the corral-or close to it-already by that time of day, but it was the adventure I was hoping for so I pulled on my snow boots and trekked outside.

I remember sliding on some ice on my way up to the corral. I saw the horses were waiting in the corral for their hay, except for my horse, ‘Pop’. I called him, but he didn’t appear. Laddie, Dan, Lena and the others were all standing there looking at me. But I remember Dan kept jerking his head up, ears in the alert position, listening. At my age I was too young to worry. I just headed out to the west because that road led to the horse pasture, just to see if I could lay eyes on him somewhere out there.

I played my way through the untouched snow and finally looked up. There he was. Pop stood by the cattle guard in kind of a strange position. I could see his breath pumping out into the cold air even at that distance. I called him, but he didn’t move. He just put his head down low.

I ran to him, picking up that something was wrong. As I got closer I saw blood all over the snow and how he was barely upright on two legs. My horse was in bad shape. He was covered in sweat, foaming around the shoulders and up high on his neck, and steam rose up from him a cloud. It was like witnessing his spirit slowly leave him.

I didn’t slow down then. I fell on my horses’ neck and the cry that finally came from my throat was barely audible. My sobs and tears just would not stop. I looked into his soft, round eye and I heard him tell me goodbye. I went from weeping to shock to panicked action. There was wire around him up under his foreleg from the old wire gate that we sometimes strung up across the road. His other shoulder hung dangling, the hoof jammed in between the pipes of the cattle guard. His hind legs were planted in the cattle guard too, but only one could hold weight. The other was broken.

I worked my tiny self so hard trying to free him from the wire and finally removed some of it. But I couldn’t do any more and I needed help. I sat down on the snow in front of my horse. My beautiful buckskin horse-of-my-dreams, the one that had given me wings. He nuzzled me, he put his nose into my lap and let me hug his head…my forehead on his. I was too young to have any words. What passed between us then was only in our spirits. He was a gift from God and I knew it. If I went for help my mom and my granddad weren’t going to let me come back. This was goodbye. The only words I managed to utter were, “I can’t save you Poppie. I love you.” I sat with him until my heart broke, because it was cruel to let him live like that another minute.

Many know this kind of pain. It’s not unique to me. But it’s hard to lose a horse. They give us so much of themselves and when their time is up, we are shocked by mortality and how terrifyingly final death is. The thought of never riding them again is a loss I can’t explain. But I know it. I know it well.

The horses had run in that evening and because the snow had drifted over that cattle guard, Pop never saw it and fell right into a death trap. Dan was Pop’s full brother; they were both buckskin colored and both good ranch horses. He had tried to tell me something was wrong that day. In the years since, I have learned to watch my horses more carefully.

A cattle-guard is placed in a road where a gate once was, and it allows you to drive through the pastures without having to stop and open a gate. Cattle rarely get hung up in one, but I’ve known three horses that have died in them, all because of snow. We put up cross-ropes with orange tape or flags tied on them in the winter now.

Growing up on a ranch comes with some hard lessons. The day Pop died, I learned that life is precious. It’s not time that we should value so much as life, and we should never take our gifts from God for granted. Already I had learned about death, but that day, I learned about loss. Some goodbyes are forever. I think learning this when so young has shaped me a great deal in life since.

I also learned something important about mercy. It’s very hard to explain, but the moment I knew he couldn’t be saved, I was struck with the thought that if I loved him, it would be selfish to make him suffer more.

If that had not happened when it did, I would not have loved my horses as deeply throughout my life as I have. I might have treated them all with casual indifference, and considered their years of service to be of little consequence, valuing them only by what pleasure they gave me. Saying goodbye to my horse was a hard lesson, but God used Pop to teach me some wisdom about life. He does work in mysterious ways.

Pop, with mom and me. I wasn’t quite a year old, and he was about 4. He was a stand-out, special horse. I think of him still.

Dear Daddy,

Dear Daddy,

I love you. I know you love me too. Now that we have that out of the way, there’s something else I want to say. 

Dad, I’m just as good as my brothers at sorting pairs. You haven’t seemed to notice, but I don’t miss a thing; and if you’d only let me, I would sort ’em neat and clean. 

You never let me ride the broncs, ‘cuz I’m a girl and all, thanks for your consideration Dad, but it isn’t fair you know. 

You learned to ride from your dad, who was taught by his; how am I supposed to keep up then, if you don’t let me now and again?

I’ll never be the rough string rider, we both know that’s true, I just wish you’d see, though, how much I want to learn from you.

Just because I wear a dress to church and Mama’s teaching me her trade, doesn’t mean I prefer to cook than help you put out hay.

When the hay truck pulls up, go ahead and ask me, Dad, I am not afraid. (Just between us I think I’d rather do that than bake all day.)

I’ll do the work Dad, I know I can, so please don’t leave me out. I’m not the kind of girl who would turn on you and pout. The boys are given tasks to do so I don’t think this is too much to ask of you.

Listen, Daddy, someday I won’t be here.

I’ll be someplace else, with someone else, who includes me in what they do. Then I’ll have to cook, and stay inside, and go to town and stuff, because I’ll have a family of my own and be like Mama: tough.

If you’ll just show me your side of life for now, Dad, it’ll be enough.

Mama will teach me all she can about how to be a lady. Her lessons and her example are my guiding light, so don’t worry, I won’t lose her gentle touch.

But teach me to cowboy, to ride and rope and be a hand. After all, you still can’t tell which one of us will love the land. Don’t leave me out Dad, please. I’m part of this place, too. There’s lessons out there I was meant to learn…from you. 

I’ll prove to you that teaching me will pay off sooner or later. I’ll learn this lifestyle inside out and when the time comes to choose my way, the passion that you passed on to me will make you proud someday.

Daddy, you’re my hero. Think about this, k? Next time we run in the colts or when it’s time to brand, just let me try, I’ll make a number one top hand. 

With all my heart,

Your loving daughter





First you see the cattle stringing out at a brisk trot. You’re gathering a rough brushy pasture, trotting over a rock bedecked hill, watching for movement somewhere. You hope you covered all of your assigned territory and that you kept the pace of the circle everyone was making, because you haven’t seen anybody since the drop off. Your mind drifts back to that spot you figured was clear but now wish you’d trotted the extra 500 yards to make sure.

You pull up your sweaty horse to get a good look at what’s below you. While he’s catching his air you take note of the bunch trotting down the draw. The man on the outside circle ahead of you must have kicked them down here, knowing they’d travel and knowing you’d pick them up. Good, you tell yourself. I’m where I should be.

But the next thing you see is another horse and rider behind those cattle, and you realize you are behind. You’re somewhat disgusted with yourself, but glad you saw those cows or you’d have ridden right in front of them and turned them around. Squinting into the sunrise, you try to recognize the rider. What you see first sorta embarrasses you, then it makes you smile. It’s the kid.




They may be little. Their stirrups are barely long enough to touch the horse’s hide. Daddy may not let them carry a rope yet, and Mama might always stay within earshot, but don’t underestimate a kid on a horse. You’re looking at typically about 15+ years experience working and gathering cattle, between them and their horse. The judgement may come from the horse, but the motivation is from the kid. Gates do slow these little cowboys down quite a bit, but other than that, they’re good for as long as Mom will let them ride.

The truth is, cowkids learn how to do a lot more tasks than they are physically able to perform. They know exactly how to saddle their old pony, or work the squeeze chute, or drive the pickup, but the required height and strength is yet to come. There’s a lot they don’t know, but the trick is, they don’t know that!



When other kids are big enough to want to go to the mall, cow kids are about big enough to build a hay fort. They bring all sorts of ‘necessities’ to the hay barn and wrestle the 50-75 lb hay bales into the perfect spots to create tunnels and lookout holes. It’s like being lord of your very own grass castle. Our forts always had blankets, kittens, a canteen, and a pair of old binoculars for spying. My sister and I swiped the walkie talkies when we had friends over, but if we couldn’t use those, we would use our dogs to carry messages to the house (with notes tied in the collar that said something like, “Mom, bring snacks”).


There were five of us cousins born within a few years of each other. At family ranch ‘works’, we were all mounted on trusty horses that had been there, done that. So when we got the cattle to the corral and there wasn’t anything for us little guys to do, we would designate teams and play ‘cowboys and indians’. Basically we chased each other around the juniper trees on a nearby hill as fast as our old ponies would let us go. It was a glorified game of tag, complete with ambushes and war whoops. We couldn’t get on our horses without a fence, so we seldom dismounted during our game. On a couple of occasions we did take it too far…we found some sheep chalk (a bright oil-based paint stick made for marking sheep but used also to mark cattle when we palpate) in the saddle shed and put war paint on our horses. It didn’t wear off for months! The times we used Mom’s lipstick, it came off sooner.

Most little cowkids will want to ride every four-legged critter on the place. They’ll try all the horses, ride anything in the corral if you don’t stop them: even calves, pigs, and dogs.

Me on a little Brahman bull calf named T-Bone. 


My first time to get really bucked off was at age 10 (it wasn’t the last!). I had convinced my Dad to let me ride a horse in his string named Mouse (‘string’ is the word we use for the horses that are assigned to a particular cowboy. They’re his tools, if you will. Many ranches provide a string of horses for each of their employees to use). Well, Mouse was a grulla color with a big white star on his forehead, and I was so in love. He seemed gentle enough, but hadn’t ever felt spurs up high on his ribs (cowkids aren’t known for having long stirrups). I gigged him in the ribs like I did my old pony, but Mouse was a lot more ticklish. He broke into a little crow hop and there I went. I still remember the slow-motion sensation of the ground rushing up at me.

Mom picked me up, dusted me off, caught my horse and put me back up there. Sitting back up on the beast, I could feel the electricity in him. His hide seemed to crawl with it, his ears were locked on me and I was locked on him. Mom fixed me a make-shift night latch (a leather strap around the swells of the saddle to grab if needed. No cow kid is ever allowed to use the saddle horn for balance. It’s for a rope only.) She rode right beside me, talking quietly to help me and Mouse get our minds off each other. Within minutes, we were moving out together like old friends. I had learned something that can’t be taught: respect your horse. It only took me four or five days to fall in love with another horse in Daddy’s string. Mouse was certified ‘kid-broke’ by then, and I was ready for my next one.

Sammie on her Daddy’s horse.

There’s a special age when your burdens are still light but you’re able to do more things, and that age for ranch kids is a blessed time of freedom. You start to learn everything important  but you don’ t have the pressure of your teens to take the fun out of it. Hard work, responsibility, perseverance, discipline, compassion, honesty…it’s all there. Caring for livestock is fun; you want to go out in below zero cold to play in the snow while Dad busts ice. You want to go clean stock tanks because you get to play in the mud while Mom and your older siblings have to bail out the trough.



Cowkids. I would trade places with them in a heartbeat. Wouldn’t you?




The photos in this article are all the property of Brittany Starritt unless otherwise noted. They feature my niece, Sammie, cowkid and horsewoman extraordinairre. She illustrates the story better than the words do. I’m proud she calls me her ‘Tantie’. 


I overheard a conversation the other day between my mom and one of her friends who was a young mom on the Block Ranch more than 20 years ago. Her son is a good friend of mine now, so when she said he growled at strangers when he was a baby, I wanted to laugh out loud!

“He spent all his time around the dogs! He didn’t know any better,” she explained.

Now, he’s a daddy. Can’t wait to hear how this plays out!

Mom followed with a story about me. I was always on my hands and knees, nickering and snorting instead of talking because I was a horse. None of my jeans had knees in them, and holey jeans weren’t the fashion then.

“When Cheyenne didn’t like someone she’d paw and squeal and turn around to kick them,” Mom said, her smile lines deepening. “I’d just have to tell them she was pretending to be a horse…”






If your best friends were flea-bitten cow dogs; the biggest crowd you’re ever in was a four-legged one bunched around a feed truck; and your greatest thrill was riding in front of mom or dad on their saddle to move cattle, well, you’d have a different perspective on life. You’d believe the world was your oyster. You’d understand the sky was your limit but you’d love having your feet on the ground all the same. It’s little wonder some of these babies grow up wanting to shoulder the burdens of an antiquated lifestyle in a world that has passed them by. They get a jump-start on things and figure out what really matters for themselves.






These little ones start this as soon as they can hold up their heads. So when they gain the freedom of walking, they toddle around at the barn or the corral and follow their tail-wagging pals wanting to be part of the ‘gang’ (or they are trying to stuff hay into mouths…any mouths…even cats and mama).  And they do fit right in, right away. Last summer, when my daughter was only two, I stopped her from rolling in the dirt and throwing dust on herself.

“What are you doing, Kaelyn?”

“I’m taking a bath like a chicken!” she replied in her two-year-old lilt, looking over her shoulder at the chickens scratching and dirt-bathing their feathers.

Oh. I shook my head and thought to myself that I’d just make sure she took a bath like a human later on.


Bottle calves and milk cows; horses and chickens are their social life. Eating feed or chewing on a dog biscuit are just what you do. Bringing mom a dead mouse instead of flowers is not unusual, the cat does it all the time! And licking mineral and salt is certainly one of the social norms. (Mom draws the line at drinking out of the stock tank…if she can get there fast enough to prevent it.)







My two little cowbabies delight me. I love watching them. Kaelyn lopes everywhere on her pretend pony Sparky. She is the Sheriff of Dog City (the place we keep the dogs) and her little brother Crockett is the honorary Deputy. But he would rather collect certain colors of rocks and eat cat food, or, if we are at the barn, goat droppings. Close enough to raisins, right?







Crockett can’t say please, but he can say the pony’s name clear as a bell (“Beau”). Kaelyn can’t put on her own boots, but she can open any gate in the corral no problem. Both of them count cows on sight, and cry when it’s time to go in the house.




Mine have the benefit of a very watchful daddy, who gives them ranch exposure in small doses…like several hours in a feed pickup. He’s the one who packs them around the corral, who can work the chute with one hand while holding them in the other. They always have daddy in their sights. I have to say, I think this one thing is probably worth any price, growing up in the shadow of a hard-working godly man. (Maybe this is a bit of bragging. You can take that occasionally, right?)







The bigger the babies get, all ranch mama’s eventually learn that the safest place to put your kids is not in the house (because they’ll either destroy it or escape), but on a horse…the old babysitter. It’s the only way to keep them from going down a badger hole with the dog! Even though we parents try, we can’t keep them civilized when they live like the cowboy version of Mowgli from day one.


Here’s the equation: Cowboy + Cowgirl = Cowbaby.

 Cowbaby + Cowdog – Mama = Trouble.

Cowbaby + Cowhorse – Mama = Fun within a safe distance of the kitchen window.




The goal for us parents is just to raise our kids in the best possible way, like any other family. There are some variables in our life that do spice things up a little, most of those variables are four-legged, and the rest of the variables have something to do with caring for the four-legged ones. Bringing a baby into your life is a God-sized blessing no matter who you are. And for a mama, at first, it means backing off caring for the four-legged’s and focusing on the kids. But eventually, things get back to ‘normal’ . Somebody gives the baby a dogie calf or a lamb or a kitten to love, (or the mare foals), and just like that, a cowbaby is christened. The cycle has begun anew, right before your eyes. The next generation takes the torch.





How embarrassed the mama’s of cowbabies can be! If you meet one of these kinds of children, and they sniff you, bark at you, or circle you…well, they’re normal for ranch kids. If they look you up and down with no expression when you try to speak to them, don’t worry. They just don’t get to town very often. Church or the grocery store are a culture shock. So cut these cowbabies some slack. When they grow up into Cowkids, most of this behavior is shunned. 😉



Through Their Eyes



Photo is the property of Shayla Erboli


The real pleasure of being a ranch woman is bringing along the next generation of cowboys and cowgirls. I want to announce a new series about the ‘littles’ called “Cowkids”, coming in March.



With the passing of time, I miss the way ranch life seemed to me when I was a kid. I remember the magic of the morning and how days and miles seemed to last a lifetime, only to wake up longing to do it all again. Cold, heat, wind, dust and mud only seemed to make it even more fun for us. (Folks, I’m sad to say, I don’t always feel that way anymore!) How better to look at ranching than through the eyes of the future?

I’m very excited to kick this off with an essay written by one of these rare young’uns! Here is a story by a little gal who is unique even among adults. During spring works on her grandparents ranch, she’d be up, dressed, saddled and waiting for everybody else.  She could stay with it all day without complaining before she was even as tall as her horses’ knees. She has a bent for creative writing, and here she shares her view of  the mornings before the work begins.

Enjoy her story, and watch for the next chapter about kids, cattle, and horses coming next month!



Pick a Mount


Today. The day when all the cowboys and cowgirls wake at the crack of dawn and pick the horse that will carry them to love hard work. When all the cowhands wake up, they rise to see all the beautiful, vibrant colors that God painted in the morning sky, consisting of pink, coral, deep blue, as well as dreamy purple, the colors that you can never imagine.



Today is really a special day, for when all the ranch hands gather in a circle, grasping a cup of coffee in their course, raspy, scarred hands, they tell a story of hard work and respect. Although you might think all the ranch hands are grown, however there are some tough young cowhands that know the true meaning of hard work. This is when all the ranch hands gather at the horse corrals to pick their cayuses (horses).




Crowding at the fence, they stare at the beautiful creatures that God created. Some may say that this is the hardest part of that day, for their noble steed may not want to be caught or chosen for the hard work ahead of them! Dodging and shooting across the pen, as if there was a cougar trying to eat them for its breakfast,the dust rises. It looks as if there is a thunder storm building. At last, the horses calm down, tired and out of breath, causing it to seem like they are breathing smoke.


Photo is the property of Shayla Erboli


Finally the cowboys, and cowgirls throw their saddles on their horse’s backs, in the western style. A cold piece of metal reaches to center of the cayuse’s tongue, causing the horse to raise it’s head in surprise. Then the cowboys load their horses in a grungy trailer, bouncing them up the long rugged road, carrying their noble steed to the hard work of the ranch life.


Written by Abby Morris, age 13.

This is Abby Day. Quite the cowgirl in the making. (photo is the property of Shayla Erboli)


[Abby used some terms that may not be familiar to you, like the word “Cayuse”. It’s just another word for horse. And while a good saddle horse is used to going to work, chances are he won’t volunteer. Abby talks about what it’s like to watch the cowboys select and catch a horse that feels good in the morning!

She also makes a reference to a ‘grungy trailer’. In modern ranching, it is common practice to load the horses in a seldom washed stock trailer and haul them to remote parts of the ranch  where the crew unloads, mounts up, and spreads out to gather all the cattle in that particular pasture. It saves the horse to haul him at least part of the way and gives him a bit of a break when the work is done. This way you give him a ride home and not the other way around.]


Would you like to hear more from the cow kids themselves? I know I would!  If you’ll leave a comment here on the blog, I’ll see what I can do about that. 😉

Them Biscuits

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Biscuits. My nemesis.

“You wanna taste something’ come directly from Heav’n?” Chill Wills says to John Wayne as he hands him a biscuit presumably made by the striking “Mrs. Warren”, played by Yvonne DeCarlo.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinking’?” he asks, grinning.

John Wayne is still chewing, but he nods. As soon as he can manage with his mouth full, he says, “Hire her!”

This is from the movie “McClintock!”. Just by tasting her biscuits, they give the poor widow a job-even before they see her! If John Wayne had only known the trouble those biscuits would set in motion…but then, judging by how well everyone loved Mrs. Warren’s cooking throughout the film, I have a hunch he wouldn’t have changed a thing.

What I wouldn’t give to be the gal who makes biscuits from Heaven!

I can serve my man anything, so long as I serve biscuits with it. But if the biscuits are a disappointment, even a steak dinner is a disappointment. (I am exaggerating, he’s not that way, but still!)

Look at this guy. He’s about to get on a bronc in a snowstorm. He can’t be that picky!

I would be wringing my hands in distress because for one, it was maddening to me that he wouldn’t just pat me on the back and pretend to like my rock-hard, black-bottomed home made biscuits. I’m covered in flour with tears streaking down my red-hot cheeks, for crying out loud! Just eat it!

And two, I was mad at myself because I couldn’t do this simple thing that would make him so happy. I finally resigned my marriage to mediocrity, leaving the biscuit responsibility to a can. And my husband, my hero and the love of my life, had to settle for too-often-burnt-hockey-puck biscuits courtesy of a creepy, smiley little dough boy with a chef hat. Hmmph.

But I didn’t give up, not really. I kept trying every biscuit recipe I got my hands on to please my biscuit-loving cowboy. I cooked my way through a high stack of Pioneer Woman recipes, too. Plus home-made bread, rolls, pies, cakes, muffins, brisket, chili, lasagna, authentic enchiladas from scratch (including the red sauce), and even disappearing breakfast burritos have all joined my repertoire. And after all that, the biscuits still remained a blacklisted (and often blackened) item.

Until…the year 2018 came along. For Christmas, I was given a cookbook by Mackenzie Kimbro called Roots Run Deep: Our Ranching Tradition. And in said book, I found the secret to bringing back that honeymoon look in my hubby’s eye. It was a recipe called “Refrigerator Biscuits”. And there was much rejoicing in the Landry home when I got that recipe down!

See? This is what happens when you get the biscuits right. (Actually, I’m cheating. This was an engagement photo…before he found out I couldn’t make biscuits! Ignorance is bliss.)

Maybe I do make biscuits every time I turn around these days. I don’t mind. It’s worth it. To be honest, I’ve tasted better ones myself, but if he likes them, they’re perfect!

So now you know what he’s getting on Valentines Day: a batch of hot, buttered home-made biscuits, made from scratch by yours truly! (Plus a kiss or two…)

photo courtesy of Pinterest







“Bang!” Silence.

“Bang!” Giggles.

“Bang!” I stopped and checked my rifle as my quarry slowly waddled away. I shook my head because the porcupine walked off after I shot him in vital areas. Three times! My friend held the dog and laughed hysterically…at me.

“Shoot ’em again!” she somehow managed to blurt out between gasps. I could only stomp away in disgust, shaking my head.

At the time, I was fourteen, green to most everything, and more than a little embarrassed. I had NOT missed. Why wasn’t it dead? But soon I contracted the giggles, too, when she imitated my ‘stalking’ the terrible beastie. We laughed about it, and it got funnier in the re-telling.



One of our realities in ranch country is varmints. Websters’ dictionary defines them as  follows: “vermin; especially a person or animal regarded as troublesome or objectionable”.  Although non-predatory, these critters do belong on the Wanted List.

Badgers are a nuisance. Their tunneling can damage water pipelines and water tanks. Skunks are a bother, and ‘coons and possums, because they get into things, contaminate feed, and love to kill chickens for fun. Snakes are always sent to perdition on sight. (We talked about them in the post “Just Part of It”.) And then there are porcupines.

These “harmless” little fellas are peaceful. They have an extremely slow metabolism (which is why it takes them so long to die, I found out), and keep to themselves in trees or in sandy holes in the ground. Since they’re slow, they don’t run fast enough from danger and therefore were given a defense which is, safe to say, quite effective.

It’s not if, it’s when a dog or a horse or a bovine gets got, ending up suffering greatly from their weapons of, well, suffering. The quills, unlike a cactus thorn, are barbed on the tips with tiny little ridges. When the critter projects them, the quills inflate and the barbs stick out, making extraction miserable. The end of the quill must be chopped off first, then pulled out. If not immediately removed, the barbs help to work the quill deeper into the flesh. Pain, infection, and misery result and usually the animal must be sedated in order to pull the quills out. Most often, they get it right in the nose.

Porcupines aren’t welcome around livestock and particularly around ranch headquarters. As a kid, we could ‘hunt’ them just to give us something useful to do, but in general if we see one, it was just his day to go, otherwise they are left to themselves.

Having wild pets is one of those ranch kid privileges that makes for a joyful childhood. I’ve tried to capture and tame most varmint species. (The glaring exception being skunks!) My sister and I each slept with our baby raccoons until mom put a stop to it because the little critters were a nuisance, especially at night! My “pet” porcupine was sweet, and would eat out of your hand, but petting him was never an option. The ‘possum was banned from the house because mom thought it might not be sanitary for a fifth grader to eat meals with a ‘possum hanging around her neck, even if the little critter did get regular baths. One set of baby mice tragically did not survive to adulthood because I found out the hard way it isn’t exactly good manners to bring them to church. The owl, the jackrabbit(s), the crow (s), and the rat were eventually sent outside as well, but they weren’t exiled because I was sent outside too!

In my lifetime, the only porcupine I’ve ever shot was the one in the above story. The rest were roadkill. This porcupine (pictured above) is one I met a few years ago. I was trying to see how close I could get to him without getting “quilled”. Thankfully, we both survived the ordeal.

The fact is, anyone who has worked to save their suffering animal from a porcupine’s quills won’t balk at shooting one given the chance. Last year, my sister’s Catahoula cow dogs thought a porcupine was a squeak toy. Days later, sore and swollen and sleepless, they regretted that.

porcupine dog
These photos belong to Charity Underwood.


Only a week or so after that incident one of my husbands’ horses had a run in with a porcupine too. This horse is the ‘no-touchy’ type, so earing him down and pulling them was out of the question. After being given a sedative, the minor “surgery” was successful. I bet ol’ Yeller never sniffs a fluffy rat ever again!




Livestock (and the dogs, people, and horses that are here to tend them) and varmints don’t always coexist harmoniously. But we know that to rid the range of all varmints would tip the ecosystem out of balance and that would be a price too high to pay in the end. I’m glad to have called a few of these critters my friends but in the end, there are always the realities of ranch life to keep my feet on the ground.




God holds the cards for us. He knows what’s coming. We just play along, so last December, he shuffled the deck for us Landry’s and some of the other folks out here on the ‘north side’.

Long story short, we moved ‘next door’. And other folks did the same. When the dust settled, none of us had really gone very far, but everything had changed in a way. And change, major or minor, can make you feel like the ground in front of you is not as solid as you thought.

Everything we owned was loaded up into stock trailers and rattled down the road a ways. In that short trip, all of our furniture was covered in a thick layer of fine dust. And it still kind of is, to tell the truth. I do clean, but the dust has to go somewhere! It might as well lay on the dresser so we can write messages to each other.

We have waited for snow, and haven’t seen any as of now. Guess that’s just not in the cards for this month. God sure does shuffle good. I was counting on winter weather!

Life isn’t predictable like we think it is when we are entrenched in a routine. As I come to know who God is, however, I’m finding that he is always the same. 2018 will likely hold some more surprises for us! At first, I got a little worried about that. But here’s a well-loved passage of the Bible that I find instructive. It begins with these words:

“The Lord is my Shepherd. I lack nothing.”

So the One who holds the cards isn’t some slick gambler as indifferent as Fate or as impulsive as Chance. He’s a wise and gentle Shepherd. Another passage tips the scales for me:

“I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me…and I lay down my life for the sheep.”

It certainly takes a deep commitment to care for livestock. I know. You can’t ever really be ‘off’ work, what if they need you? One cold night changes everything: calves were born that might need thawing out or ice needs busting or pipes need fixing. Cowboys (like shepherds) take their responsibility personally. Their ‘job’ is their life, and that relationship they have with the stock they care for is very unique. Cattle aren’t cuddly, but a cowboy will perform superhuman feats to get water to them. He’ll give up his chair by the fire, or his night’s sleep; he’ll freeze in the winter and melt in the summer and put his own health on the line. “Whatever it takes,” I’ve heard these men say. I suppose he does love the cattle, in a way. And maybe they love him (or just the cake truck…but he is the driver!) in a way, too.

But the Good Shepherd is different. He lays down his life for the sheep. Let’s all try to remember who He is the next time He shuffles the deck.


Scripture references are from the NIV, Psalm 23:1 and John 10:14 and 15


winter view

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