By Jerry Mack Grubbs
It was called Rattlesnake Canyon before a more inviting name was adopted. As I climbed the trail that crisscrossed the creek I encountered two rattlesnakes. No wonder this place was called Rattlesnake Canyon. Several times I started to turn back and find another place to do my hike and get my exercise. Something inside nudged me on. I wanted to make it to the top of the canyon and see the source of this stream. I pushed on until noon where I stopped by the creek and ate a sandwich from my daypack. After a brief rest I pushed on up the canyon.
In the early afternoon I came upon a third rattlesnake. This one was stretched out sunning in the middle of the trail. I found a long stick and poked the snake to encourage it to move out of my way. The snake refused to move. It would give a brief rattle of its tail to warn me off. Because of the steepness of the terrain I couldn't get around the snake. I felt like an intruder into the snake's territory but it was blocking me from my destination so I continued to agitate the snake in hopes it would move away and let me pass. Finally the snake moved into the heavy brush next to the trail. Now I had a worse situation. I could no longer see the snake or the threat it imposed. I had to decide whether I would take the chance to move on up the path in hopes that the snake had moved away or at least would let me pass unharmed.
Although it is difficult to explain now, at the time I felt compelled to go on. I crowded the far side of the trail and cautiously moved along, listening for the tale tale sign of those rattlers signaling a state of agitation by the snake. I passed by unharmed and proceeded on my journey. The trail became steeper and more difficult. The vegetation became denser. For a while the images of the snakes I encountered on my hike dominated my thoughts. Behind every log, nestled next to every bush that crowded the trail, my imagination saw another deadly rattlesnake lying in wait to plant it sharp fangs into my unprotected ankle.
As time passed I began to look up more and enjoy the creations of nature around me. Eventually I came to the headwaters of the creek that fed this canyon. The crystal clear water came pouring out of the rocks from an underground source fed by snowmelt from higher mountains. It sparkled in the afternoon sun. Just below this feature was a natural pool about four feet deep. I slipped off my boots and cooled my feet in the water. I decided that more than just my feet would enjoy a refreshing soak so I slipped off my clothes and slid into the pool. I laid my head back on the bank and let my submerged body lap up the experience.
I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start. The noise that awakened me was a woman standing in the middle of the pool. She acted as though I wasn't even there. I assumed she stood with her back to me to safeguard my privacy. I covered myself with my hands and said nothing but continued to observe her. I watched in silence as she dipped her hair into the pool and let rivulets of water streaming from her hair cool her neck and back. She did this repeatedly, each time pushing her hair back out of her face. Droplets of water beaded on her shoulders and back and sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. I felt so relaxed I forgot I was undressed. Then she looked over at me and smiled I knew her. When our eyes met, I awoke. I had been dreaming. The experience was so vivid I looked around to see where she had disappeared to. But she was gone. I closed my eyes and tried to will her back into my mind. It was no use.
I climbed out the pool and dried in the warmth of the afternoon sun. After dressing and lacing up my hiking boots, I gathered up my daypack and headed back down the canyon. I saw no rattlesnakes but maybe I wasn't looking for any. My eyes were looking up, not down.
This experience came to me on the 6th of August, 2004, almost three years ago, but it is as fresh in my mind today as it was then. I would paint you a picture if I were an artist and could convey on canvas what my dream showed me that day. But then, you are entitled to your own dreams and your own interpretations. I wouldn't spoil that for anything.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Tree House
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
She was agile as a boy when she climbed up into the tree. This girl was the only female I had ever invited to my tree house. I didn't actually invite her; she just stepped into my mind as I slept. This girl, this dream girl appeared at the base of the tree and said, "I want to share your tree house." She didn't say, "I want to visit your tree house."
This was a girl. Could she even climb the rope? Pushing through all that mental fog I said, "Do you need some help getting up the tree?" Before she could respond I began climbing down to help her. She acted irritated that I would think she needed my help. Irritation wasn't a feeling I wanted there in my secluded world. "This girl better get a different attitude if she is going to share my tree house," I thought. From the moment she sat down on the elevated platform next to me she became a co-owner of all my building efforts. Every board hauled up the rope, every nail driven into the tree and every hour spent planning how I would build my hideaway gave way to a feeling that it had never felt complete until she sat there next to me.
Accepting her was like drinking a glass of refreshing cold milk. She wore all white: white shorts, white blouse, white canvas shoes. She was fair complexioned and had blondish brown hair. When she saw that I was barefoot she removed her shoes. The irritation she originally stirred in me from her independent attitude faded as I watched her remove her shoes. But what drew me in to her were her eyes and her smile. She told me that she was eleven.
Touching her with my eyes, she spilled into me and covered all my insides. Although I didn't realize it at that moment, I would soon learn that I would never feel alone again. She stayed with me in my mind as I journeyed through my life, not necessarily as a living personage but more as a feeling. Down in the woods up in that tree house I forged a relationship with her that would stand the test of time. The tree no longer stands. Development has overrun and obliterated the forest that grew just beyond the home of my youth.
Before leaving for college in 1964 I returned to the tree house and renewed the memories I had created there through the years. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the 5th of September 1965, before leaving for my mission for the LDS Church, I went back to the tree house and spent some quiet time. It would be the last time I ever sat and dangled my feet off the edge of that platform and looked down on the world below. Four years to the day of that last visit high up in the tree house, I walked through the doors of the Salt Lake LDS Temple and was married to my wife Kaye. Although it has been forty-two years since that last day I climbed up into the tree house it continues to be a place I can go to in my mind and find peace in my heart and a renewed resolve to strive to love others unconditionally as the girl in my dreams loved me.
She was agile as a boy when she climbed up into the tree. This girl was the only female I had ever invited to my tree house. I didn't actually invite her; she just stepped into my mind as I slept. This girl, this dream girl appeared at the base of the tree and said, "I want to share your tree house." She didn't say, "I want to visit your tree house."
This was a girl. Could she even climb the rope? Pushing through all that mental fog I said, "Do you need some help getting up the tree?" Before she could respond I began climbing down to help her. She acted irritated that I would think she needed my help. Irritation wasn't a feeling I wanted there in my secluded world. "This girl better get a different attitude if she is going to share my tree house," I thought. From the moment she sat down on the elevated platform next to me she became a co-owner of all my building efforts. Every board hauled up the rope, every nail driven into the tree and every hour spent planning how I would build my hideaway gave way to a feeling that it had never felt complete until she sat there next to me.
Accepting her was like drinking a glass of refreshing cold milk. She wore all white: white shorts, white blouse, white canvas shoes. She was fair complexioned and had blondish brown hair. When she saw that I was barefoot she removed her shoes. The irritation she originally stirred in me from her independent attitude faded as I watched her remove her shoes. But what drew me in to her were her eyes and her smile. She told me that she was eleven.
Touching her with my eyes, she spilled into me and covered all my insides. Although I didn't realize it at that moment, I would soon learn that I would never feel alone again. She stayed with me in my mind as I journeyed through my life, not necessarily as a living personage but more as a feeling. Down in the woods up in that tree house I forged a relationship with her that would stand the test of time. The tree no longer stands. Development has overrun and obliterated the forest that grew just beyond the home of my youth.
Before leaving for college in 1964 I returned to the tree house and renewed the memories I had created there through the years. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the 5th of September 1965, before leaving for my mission for the LDS Church, I went back to the tree house and spent some quiet time. It would be the last time I ever sat and dangled my feet off the edge of that platform and looked down on the world below. Four years to the day of that last visit high up in the tree house, I walked through the doors of the Salt Lake LDS Temple and was married to my wife Kaye. Although it has been forty-two years since that last day I climbed up into the tree house it continues to be a place I can go to in my mind and find peace in my heart and a renewed resolve to strive to love others unconditionally as the girl in my dreams loved me.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The Whistle Stop
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
The day had been long and hot. I was looking forward to stopping by the train station to buy a bottle of root beer as I walked home from work. Sometimes the electricity would be off at the station and the drinks would not be cold. I was hoping that was not the case today. My wish was granted. The drink box was ice cold and so was the bottle of root beer. I walked outside so I could enjoy the little breeze that stirred around the building. I settled into a chair, leaned back against the wall and began to let my mind wander as I sipped my root beer. I was startled out of my daydreaming by the blast of a train whistle.
I remember so clearly, leaning back in my chair that day as the train slowly approached and came to a stop. I knew that the train would only be there briefly for passengers to board. I wondered why the train had stopped because there were no passengers scurrying around, saying last goodbyes and arranging luggage. No one ever got off the train in our little town except locals returning home so I was quite surprised when a beautiful young lady stepped off the train. I brought my chair down and leaned forward to get a getter look. She wore a white blouse that buttoned down the front and her blue jeans were tight against her hips. She wasn’t married. At least she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
From the moment I saw her I knew I would talk to her and find out what brought her to our little town. I approached her with no clue of what I would say. Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts she said, “Do you know where I could get a cold root beer?” I fumbled in my pocket for another nickel and said, “I’ll be right back.” She thanked me for the root beer and offered to reimburse me but I declined. In her kind way she explained that she was on a long journey and had just stepped off the train to stretch her legs. I asked if I could walk with her and she cautiously agreed. Her words seemed reluctant but her eyes said, “Yes.” We walked in silence for a while and then it was as if I had known her all my life. I told her about my family and what it was like growing up in a small town. I even shared the feelings that washed over me when I saw her step down off the train. She blushed slightly but said nothing. My openness about my feelings probably made her a little uncomfortable but it was like she was a part of me and could sense what was going on inside of me regardless of whether I told her or not. I talked, she listened. I knew as we walked together along the train tracks that I would never forget that day: that I would carry a memory of her with me for the rest of my life.
The whistle blew signaling that the train would soon depart the station. I savored the last few moments we spent together and then she casually stepped back on the train and was gone. I strained to see if she would step back out of the doorway, wave, and acknowledge me in some small way. She didn’t. As the train pulled out of the station I hoped that by some miracle she had stepped off the train on the other side and would be standing there smiling at me. She wasn’t. Some people come into our lives and are soon gone. Others touch us in a way that we are never ever the same again. I cherish those moments spent with her.
As time passes and the sound of the train whistle grows dim, I still remember the feelings of that day. As I lean back in my chair against the clapboard wall of the train station, I close my eyes and wait for the sound of the whistle that will bring the memories of her flooding back. And along with those memories is a lingering hope that she might pass my way again. She hasn’t. Not at the train station anyway, but at other times and in other places.
Bringing me back to my senses the station clerk said, “You owe me a deposit for that pop bottle the young lady took.” I reached into my pocket, withdrew a penny and handed it to the clerk. It was the best penny I ever spent. For sometime thereafter, I carried a penny in my back pocket. When I thought of the young woman who stepped off that train and came into my life I would reach into my pocket, touch the penny, and instantly feel closer to her. I no longer carry the penny but I still have it. I no longer think I will dream of her stepping off that train again but I have the memory and that is enough. She looked straight ahead as she stepped back on the train. I still wish that she had looked back if only for a moment. Remember, the best memories are measured not in days, not in hours but in brief moments, moments that change our lives.
The day had been long and hot. I was looking forward to stopping by the train station to buy a bottle of root beer as I walked home from work. Sometimes the electricity would be off at the station and the drinks would not be cold. I was hoping that was not the case today. My wish was granted. The drink box was ice cold and so was the bottle of root beer. I walked outside so I could enjoy the little breeze that stirred around the building. I settled into a chair, leaned back against the wall and began to let my mind wander as I sipped my root beer. I was startled out of my daydreaming by the blast of a train whistle.
I remember so clearly, leaning back in my chair that day as the train slowly approached and came to a stop. I knew that the train would only be there briefly for passengers to board. I wondered why the train had stopped because there were no passengers scurrying around, saying last goodbyes and arranging luggage. No one ever got off the train in our little town except locals returning home so I was quite surprised when a beautiful young lady stepped off the train. I brought my chair down and leaned forward to get a getter look. She wore a white blouse that buttoned down the front and her blue jeans were tight against her hips. She wasn’t married. At least she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
From the moment I saw her I knew I would talk to her and find out what brought her to our little town. I approached her with no clue of what I would say. Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts she said, “Do you know where I could get a cold root beer?” I fumbled in my pocket for another nickel and said, “I’ll be right back.” She thanked me for the root beer and offered to reimburse me but I declined. In her kind way she explained that she was on a long journey and had just stepped off the train to stretch her legs. I asked if I could walk with her and she cautiously agreed. Her words seemed reluctant but her eyes said, “Yes.” We walked in silence for a while and then it was as if I had known her all my life. I told her about my family and what it was like growing up in a small town. I even shared the feelings that washed over me when I saw her step down off the train. She blushed slightly but said nothing. My openness about my feelings probably made her a little uncomfortable but it was like she was a part of me and could sense what was going on inside of me regardless of whether I told her or not. I talked, she listened. I knew as we walked together along the train tracks that I would never forget that day: that I would carry a memory of her with me for the rest of my life.
The whistle blew signaling that the train would soon depart the station. I savored the last few moments we spent together and then she casually stepped back on the train and was gone. I strained to see if she would step back out of the doorway, wave, and acknowledge me in some small way. She didn’t. As the train pulled out of the station I hoped that by some miracle she had stepped off the train on the other side and would be standing there smiling at me. She wasn’t. Some people come into our lives and are soon gone. Others touch us in a way that we are never ever the same again. I cherish those moments spent with her.
As time passes and the sound of the train whistle grows dim, I still remember the feelings of that day. As I lean back in my chair against the clapboard wall of the train station, I close my eyes and wait for the sound of the whistle that will bring the memories of her flooding back. And along with those memories is a lingering hope that she might pass my way again. She hasn’t. Not at the train station anyway, but at other times and in other places.
Bringing me back to my senses the station clerk said, “You owe me a deposit for that pop bottle the young lady took.” I reached into my pocket, withdrew a penny and handed it to the clerk. It was the best penny I ever spent. For sometime thereafter, I carried a penny in my back pocket. When I thought of the young woman who stepped off that train and came into my life I would reach into my pocket, touch the penny, and instantly feel closer to her. I no longer carry the penny but I still have it. I no longer think I will dream of her stepping off that train again but I have the memory and that is enough. She looked straight ahead as she stepped back on the train. I still wish that she had looked back if only for a moment. Remember, the best memories are measured not in days, not in hours but in brief moments, moments that change our lives.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Where Dad Thrived
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Dad had gone home and the ranch was left unattended through the winter. I tried to get up there each week to check on the buildings and give an appearance of activity taking place. It was Sunday afternoon and as I thought about the busy schedule of the upcoming week, I decided that I would slip up to the ranch, spend the night and come home in the morning.
I normally flew a small plane to the ranch but there was a light snow falling so I decided to drive. I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive assuming the roads didn't become snow-packed and slick. Once I left the interstate the little towns I passed appeared deserted. It was a peaceful drive. I arrived at the gate to the ranch just as it was getting dark. I had not bothered to change my shoes and the fresh snow wetted my socks as I stepped from the cab of the truck. That wasn't very smart, I thought. Oh well, I had my boots in the truck and I could change when I got to the house.
As I opened the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance to the ranch I thought about dad and how much he loved this place. I wished he was here tonight. I would enjoy sitting by a warm fire and visiting with him and listening to the stories he had to tell about his adventures around the place. But he had gone south before the winter winds hit Wyoming. With snowdrifts four feet deep around the cabins I didn't blame him. The fact that dad wasn't here didn't stop the memories from flowing through me like clear water on a sunlit stream.
When dad first came to the ranch he said, "Mack, I'll take care of this place but I won't take any part in shooting the beavers that continue to dam up the culverts on the roads around the lake. I agreed that dad could deal peacefully with the beavers and any shooting that needed to be done, I would do. One day dad called and explained that he had spent five hours up to his waist in fifty degree water digging out a culvert plugged by a beaver. The next day dad called and told me that the beaver had plugged that same culvert again. He spent several hours in fifty degree water dragging out the limbs that chocked the culvert. The third day dad called and said, "Mack, I shot a beaver last night."
Skunks were also a serious problem for the ranch. They were nesting under one of the cabins and dad decided that he should trap them and remove the problem. The first skunk to end up in the trap created a new dilemma. How would dad get the skunk out of the trap without getting sprayed? Dad decided to shoot the skunk. He found out that shooting a skunk doesn't stop him from spraying. Not to be deterred, dad tied a twenty foot rope to the trap so the next skunk he caught, dad drug skunk, trap and all down to the lake and eased him into the water. I guess a skunk can't do two things at once: spray and drown.
The next group of creatures that came under the bead of dad's rifle was the raccoons. He would bate them with watermelon rinds and send them to the raccoon Promise Land with that rifle. Dad hadn't changed his tender feelings about the animals. He didn't enjoy taking their lives. But he loved the ranch and realized that sometimes difficult things have to be done to protect it. If a roof begins to leak and no one repairs it, nature will soon reclaim the entire cabin. Just as a nest of mice will destroy a sack of grain, beavers, skunks and raccoons will infest and wreak havoc on a ranch.
Dad taught me to respect life. He taught me that if I was going to take a life, I should be prepared to use that life for what it was created for. Growing up, dad caught me shooting blue jays and said that I would have the opportunity to pluck and eat the next blue jay I killed. I never shot another blue jay or any other animal that I didn't eat. At least that is how it was until I came to the ranch and grew weary of trying to persuade the pesky creatures of Wyoming to go be a nuisance somewhere else. Just like dad, I didn't enjoy taking the life of the raccoons, the beavers, and the skunks. But I had grown to love the ranch and the special times dad and I spent together there during the previous summer.
These memories of dad washed across my mind during the few moments it took to open the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance of the ranch. I felt lonely for dad's company. I was happy to be here in a place that is close to his heart even if he wasn't here now. Stepping back across the cattle guard, I slipped and fell. Extending my arms to catch my fall, my right arm slipped through the rails of the cattle guard and my forward motion caused a dislocation at my shoulder socket. I became dizzy with pain as I struggled to my feet. My arm hung limp and didn't obey the commands from my brain. I knew I was in trouble. It was almost dark and the snow was now coming down hard. I was a long way from help and I knew once my damaged shoulder began to swell I would not be able to get my arm back into the shoulder socket.
Just moments earlier all I needed to be content was a wealth of good memories swirling around in my head. But all the memories in the world wouldn't help relocate my shoulder. Where was dad when I needed him? I stumbled back to the truck and slid inside the warm cab to consider my options. The nearest town where medical help would be available was at least an hour's drive away but it was night and snowing hard. I decided that I needed to get my arm back into the shoulder socket before I did anything else.
Although my arm was almost useless I could still grip with my hand. I stepped out of the truck, closed the door and lifted my damaged arm with my other hand so I could grasp hold of the door handle of the truck. If I could hold on tight enough and jerk my body forward maybe the arm would slip back into place. Taking a deep breath and gripping the door handle, I jerked my body forward in hopes of forcing the shoulder joint back together. I crumpled to my knees in pain. Kneeling in the snow with my head against the side of the truck, I prayed out loud for help. Help didn't come. I struggled to my feet, took hold of the door handle once more and made a harder lunge to force my arm and shoulder back together. This time I cried out in pain as I sagged to my knees and slid down on my side until I lay in the snow cradling my injured arm.
I could feel my clothes becoming wet from the snow but I wasn't cold. Lying in the snow, I pleaded for help. There was no traffic on the road and I knew that what help I received would have to come from my own efforts. Once more I stood, took hold of the door handle and took a deep breath. I turned sideways, raised my left foot in the air and stepped forward like I was going to throw a rock as far as I could. As I gripped the door handle I let the full weight of my body carry me forward and this time I felt my arm pop back into place. Instantly the pain became less intense. I climbed back into the truck, reached over with my left hand and slipped the truck into reverse. As I backed out of the driveway to go to the hospital I noticed the open gate. I didn't want to leave the ranch unsecured nor did I want to walk across that slippery cattle guard again. I drove through the gate and up to the ranch house. Once inside, I took two strong painkillers that I carried in my bag just for occasions such as this. I stripped a spread off one of the beds and wrapped it around my chest and shoulder as tight as I could with my good arm.
I pulled the couch in the family room over by the fireplace and made a hot fire to warm my spirit. Lying on the couch I thought of all my blessings; of life, of family, of close friends, of the good times dad and I had here at the ranch. I would worry about my arm tomorrow when the sun would be bright upon the newly fallen snow and a fresh look at the world around me would make my problems a minor inconvenience. I slipped into the world of my dreams.
I recorded the dream I had that night. I still hold it close to my heart. Some dreams you share and some you tuck away. This dream I tucked away. I tucked the written words away but the dream is as alive in me today as when it filled my sleep filled mind. That night, amid the thoughts of dad at the ranch, the pain in my shoulder and the crackling fire that danced in my eyes and warmed my spirit, I made another memory even if it was only a dream. My grandpa told me to chase my dreams. He probably meant a different kind of dream. My grandpa is dead now but the dream lives on. I am thankful for all the men in my life who have helped shape and lift me when I was reaching out but couldn't quite touch my dream.
Dad and I still talk often and share fond memories of when I visited him at the ranch. I still dream of that ranch . . . where dad thrived.
Dad had gone home and the ranch was left unattended through the winter. I tried to get up there each week to check on the buildings and give an appearance of activity taking place. It was Sunday afternoon and as I thought about the busy schedule of the upcoming week, I decided that I would slip up to the ranch, spend the night and come home in the morning.
I normally flew a small plane to the ranch but there was a light snow falling so I decided to drive. I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive assuming the roads didn't become snow-packed and slick. Once I left the interstate the little towns I passed appeared deserted. It was a peaceful drive. I arrived at the gate to the ranch just as it was getting dark. I had not bothered to change my shoes and the fresh snow wetted my socks as I stepped from the cab of the truck. That wasn't very smart, I thought. Oh well, I had my boots in the truck and I could change when I got to the house.
As I opened the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance to the ranch I thought about dad and how much he loved this place. I wished he was here tonight. I would enjoy sitting by a warm fire and visiting with him and listening to the stories he had to tell about his adventures around the place. But he had gone south before the winter winds hit Wyoming. With snowdrifts four feet deep around the cabins I didn't blame him. The fact that dad wasn't here didn't stop the memories from flowing through me like clear water on a sunlit stream.
When dad first came to the ranch he said, "Mack, I'll take care of this place but I won't take any part in shooting the beavers that continue to dam up the culverts on the roads around the lake. I agreed that dad could deal peacefully with the beavers and any shooting that needed to be done, I would do. One day dad called and explained that he had spent five hours up to his waist in fifty degree water digging out a culvert plugged by a beaver. The next day dad called and told me that the beaver had plugged that same culvert again. He spent several hours in fifty degree water dragging out the limbs that chocked the culvert. The third day dad called and said, "Mack, I shot a beaver last night."
Skunks were also a serious problem for the ranch. They were nesting under one of the cabins and dad decided that he should trap them and remove the problem. The first skunk to end up in the trap created a new dilemma. How would dad get the skunk out of the trap without getting sprayed? Dad decided to shoot the skunk. He found out that shooting a skunk doesn't stop him from spraying. Not to be deterred, dad tied a twenty foot rope to the trap so the next skunk he caught, dad drug skunk, trap and all down to the lake and eased him into the water. I guess a skunk can't do two things at once: spray and drown.
The next group of creatures that came under the bead of dad's rifle was the raccoons. He would bate them with watermelon rinds and send them to the raccoon Promise Land with that rifle. Dad hadn't changed his tender feelings about the animals. He didn't enjoy taking their lives. But he loved the ranch and realized that sometimes difficult things have to be done to protect it. If a roof begins to leak and no one repairs it, nature will soon reclaim the entire cabin. Just as a nest of mice will destroy a sack of grain, beavers, skunks and raccoons will infest and wreak havoc on a ranch.
Dad taught me to respect life. He taught me that if I was going to take a life, I should be prepared to use that life for what it was created for. Growing up, dad caught me shooting blue jays and said that I would have the opportunity to pluck and eat the next blue jay I killed. I never shot another blue jay or any other animal that I didn't eat. At least that is how it was until I came to the ranch and grew weary of trying to persuade the pesky creatures of Wyoming to go be a nuisance somewhere else. Just like dad, I didn't enjoy taking the life of the raccoons, the beavers, and the skunks. But I had grown to love the ranch and the special times dad and I spent together there during the previous summer.
These memories of dad washed across my mind during the few moments it took to open the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance of the ranch. I felt lonely for dad's company. I was happy to be here in a place that is close to his heart even if he wasn't here now. Stepping back across the cattle guard, I slipped and fell. Extending my arms to catch my fall, my right arm slipped through the rails of the cattle guard and my forward motion caused a dislocation at my shoulder socket. I became dizzy with pain as I struggled to my feet. My arm hung limp and didn't obey the commands from my brain. I knew I was in trouble. It was almost dark and the snow was now coming down hard. I was a long way from help and I knew once my damaged shoulder began to swell I would not be able to get my arm back into the shoulder socket.
Just moments earlier all I needed to be content was a wealth of good memories swirling around in my head. But all the memories in the world wouldn't help relocate my shoulder. Where was dad when I needed him? I stumbled back to the truck and slid inside the warm cab to consider my options. The nearest town where medical help would be available was at least an hour's drive away but it was night and snowing hard. I decided that I needed to get my arm back into the shoulder socket before I did anything else.
Although my arm was almost useless I could still grip with my hand. I stepped out of the truck, closed the door and lifted my damaged arm with my other hand so I could grasp hold of the door handle of the truck. If I could hold on tight enough and jerk my body forward maybe the arm would slip back into place. Taking a deep breath and gripping the door handle, I jerked my body forward in hopes of forcing the shoulder joint back together. I crumpled to my knees in pain. Kneeling in the snow with my head against the side of the truck, I prayed out loud for help. Help didn't come. I struggled to my feet, took hold of the door handle once more and made a harder lunge to force my arm and shoulder back together. This time I cried out in pain as I sagged to my knees and slid down on my side until I lay in the snow cradling my injured arm.
I could feel my clothes becoming wet from the snow but I wasn't cold. Lying in the snow, I pleaded for help. There was no traffic on the road and I knew that what help I received would have to come from my own efforts. Once more I stood, took hold of the door handle and took a deep breath. I turned sideways, raised my left foot in the air and stepped forward like I was going to throw a rock as far as I could. As I gripped the door handle I let the full weight of my body carry me forward and this time I felt my arm pop back into place. Instantly the pain became less intense. I climbed back into the truck, reached over with my left hand and slipped the truck into reverse. As I backed out of the driveway to go to the hospital I noticed the open gate. I didn't want to leave the ranch unsecured nor did I want to walk across that slippery cattle guard again. I drove through the gate and up to the ranch house. Once inside, I took two strong painkillers that I carried in my bag just for occasions such as this. I stripped a spread off one of the beds and wrapped it around my chest and shoulder as tight as I could with my good arm.
I pulled the couch in the family room over by the fireplace and made a hot fire to warm my spirit. Lying on the couch I thought of all my blessings; of life, of family, of close friends, of the good times dad and I had here at the ranch. I would worry about my arm tomorrow when the sun would be bright upon the newly fallen snow and a fresh look at the world around me would make my problems a minor inconvenience. I slipped into the world of my dreams.
I recorded the dream I had that night. I still hold it close to my heart. Some dreams you share and some you tuck away. This dream I tucked away. I tucked the written words away but the dream is as alive in me today as when it filled my sleep filled mind. That night, amid the thoughts of dad at the ranch, the pain in my shoulder and the crackling fire that danced in my eyes and warmed my spirit, I made another memory even if it was only a dream. My grandpa told me to chase my dreams. He probably meant a different kind of dream. My grandpa is dead now but the dream lives on. I am thankful for all the men in my life who have helped shape and lift me when I was reaching out but couldn't quite touch my dream.
Dad and I still talk often and share fond memories of when I visited him at the ranch. I still dream of that ranch . . . where dad thrived.
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