He still drives the 4-wheel drive Jeep he drove to highschool in 1960. Thanks to consistent maintenance and taking it slow, they’re both chugging along just fine, thanks for asking. She went back into the workforce at the age most people retire, hanging up her spurs to drive supplies to the fireline in the summer. Those late rains meant everything this year, bolting the feed and settling the dust on the old gravel roads. She’s sitting by the phone and waiting for the Forest Service to call.
These days he does most of the riding, but I still remember a summer morning when she got up before the sun to push the cattle up the ridge. He closed the gate behind the bawling herd and held the reins while she dismounted, then reached to touch a bead of sweat that had pearled on her hair.
“Hard work, hon,” he said, and those words contained everything.
They married in 1980; he gave his last name to her two young sons. There was a small ceremony and a reception at Parlato’s in Fortuna. The celebration went so late that my brother set his head down in the salad fell asleep. They spent their honeymoon horse camping at the back of the ranch. Then there was work, and babies, and more work.
I’m learning something about what it takes to stay together. Love sure is something, a cup that runneth over when times are good. Love is good enough to bring you together, but you need something else to keep you together. If you feel the same way about the land, and about the work, that can be more than enough. They worked through deaths that came too soon, checks that came too late, cups half full or half empty. The work put food on the table, braces on our teeth, sent me to college. It’s hard work, hon.
I’m thinking about this as Dad and I go out in the Jeep, checking on an old cow with a miracle calf. The road to the other side of the ridge just got a fresh load of gravel and we bounce in our seats as we go, the dogs running behind us. Mom is back at the house washing the breakfast dishes and watching the phone. She had major back surgery six years ago; now her spine is cradled by a metal cage. She’s doing just fine, ready to get back on the road anytime, thanks for asking.
They have drunk the same coffee my whole life, pre-ground and percolated on the old wooden stove. Like the work, it keeps you going. We don’t fill up our mugs all the way before we get in the Jeep. Half a cup is about all you can manage on those rough gravel roads. A cup that’s half full will survive just about anything. Happy 40th anniversary Mom and Dad.
This column originally appeared in the Ferndale Enterprise July 30, 2020. The Enterprise is a great local paper; information about subscribing here.