As we worked on extending the life of the shed roofs over the chutes and troughs of our corrals — new lumber where needed, new screws through the old laminas to the rafters, and a fresh coat of paint — a mama cow nearby effortlessly dropped her new calf onto the grass.
We were lucky to witness the tender miracle. She licked the newborn a bit, and when it stood on shaky legs, they walked into the brush, she far more sure-footed than the calf that followed in small, tentative lurches.
Her job took less than half an hour, and ours continued well into the afternoon as Sergio and Beto repaired all three roofs, extending perhaps another two decades to their utility.
In random thoughts, I took a shot at calculating how long the screws might remain fastened to wood, how long before the metal roof panels would rust through. Likely it matters little, however, because at my age and as one on the inevitably charted march to el olvido, I may not be here for the next round of corral maintenance. Not knowing to whom will fall the task of saving what provides scant shade on the desert floor or any of the sun-baked work that holds this ranch together, evokes a recurring incertidumbre.
At this juncture in my life, I am in no rush for that ineluctable departure, but like the baby calf dropped at the edge of the wilderness, I move in awkward baby step lurches toward a place yet known to me, each dusty step leaving questions in its wake — who will care for what has had value for this writer’s life — the ranch, my books, my stories?
The vague answer, weighted with more footnotes than a dissertation, serves up memories of important relationships, love lost, time squandered, my life in words, and the deep, immutable love I have for my granddaughters.
Moving quickly from that somber peer into the natural order for how the life clock winds down, I found much satisfaction in seeing that our work on this day was well executed, including collecting fallen branches in the barnyard pasture and replacing the outdoor sink where we wash up after working cattle.
Day’s end found me alone on this beautiful piece of earth that had been my touchstone as a little girl, a place with a beating heart of love and raw energy. It would later become my home for the best years of my adult life. I’ve known it as a writer’s paradise — a fortress of idyllic privacy and something beautiful to contemplate at every turn of the head.
I’ve known it, too, as the cradle of family history, and that knowing presents two certainties.
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The home of my grandmother María Dionicia Benavides Gutierrez (b. 1884) in San Ygnacio. It was built in 1881 by her father, Manuel Benavides Treviño (b.1855), for his wife, María Juliana Uribe de Benavides (b. 1859), and their children. María Juliana Uribe de Benavides was the daughter of Fernando Uribe (b. 1834) and Maria del Refugio Arispe de Uribe. Fernando Uribe was the son of Blas María Uribe (b. 1811).
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Esquela: Notice of the passing of my Great-grandmother Juliana Uribe de Benavides, June 14, 1905.
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My Grandfather Filiberto Gutierrez in The Cash Store, the mercantile he owned and operated in Hebbronville.
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Siblings Amanda G. Guerra and Filiberto Gutierrez at Santa María Ranch. (Missing is a photo of beloved aunt Ninfa Catarina G. Ramirez.)
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Surveying dozer work and a spudded well site: José Guerra, Filiberto Gutierrez, Amanda G. Guerra, and Zaida G. Gutierrez at Santa María Ranch.
The first is about ownership. Deeds, titles, and abstracts are a rich, detailed narrative that gives dates and names to all the Uribe-Benavides-Trevino-Gutierrezes before it was my turn here. The narrative makes the point that the land had a life before me and endures beyond my tenure as its steward. I’ve never owned it. It has owned me.
And the other certainty is that the ranchland and the work it asks of you are the balm of wounds and loss.
My grandmother María Dionicia was a child here and later a young widow raising four sons and three daughters during the Great Depression. I’ve come to know, as she surely must have known, that this place calls heartbreak by its name and then casts it to the nurturing generosity of the brush lands.
Some sorrows, of course, are slow to diminish and they rest here for contemplation and prayer, like the loss of my brother Eduardo over which I do not gently weep, but instead wail inconsolably all these years later.
My grandmother didn’t invite strangers here, and I’ve pretty much held to the same custom, preferring the company of close friends, primos, and especially that of my granddaughters Emily and Amandita (Joyce as she is known at school).
The quietude of this place at sunrise, the fierce amber and orange blazes of sunsets, the star-pricked indigo canvas of the night sky, and the history of this place — these have bound us here.
When Emily and Amandita were much younger, and I was to them some kind of guide to the universe — that title now retired and without ceremony to Google and YouTube — we had sleepovers here that filled the ranch house with warmth and merriment. Baking, painting, and watching Old Yeller and The Indian in the Cupboard were what we did when the weather kept us indoors.
But out there in the brush beyond the house pasture, there was breathless excitement at the sighting of the true inhabitants of this place — birds, deer, javelina, coyotes, snakes, and red fox. There were, too, tailgate picnics in the monte, the excitement of the ozone charged atmosphere of weather rolling in, and the “whee!” of sailing my little SUV over the slight drainage rises on the red earth of the perimeter roads.
And there was singing — their voices dulcet and mine a hideous affront to the harmony of the natural world.
I loved how at home they were here as children, how the horses, cattle, goats, rabbits, and chickens held their interest and affection, how they never met a padlock or a gate they couldn’t figure out.
A while back when I didn’t know who was winning — the chemo or the cancer — their kindnesses calmed my fears and recalibrated how I would live the rest of my life.
The memories — theirs and mine — of their time on the ranch are woven into an inviolate tether to one another.
Beautiful words Meg.
Meg,
That is so beautiful. I almost feel I’m out there in the ‘monte’ with you and those grandchildren (now grown up, I’m sure).
How fleeting is life and all its golden moments. One must know to grab them tightly. And it seems you have.
Gilda
Beautiful writing! I never want your stories to end.
Meg, once again..you weave a magical tapestry with words that speak to those of us who dwell in beauty…Well done, amiga!!! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼❤️
I treasure your voice. I have conversed with you over the years and I follow you on this path. I am enlightened by your tender, gentle eye. I chuckle over your self deprecation and I feel the lament of a grandchild who grows each day onto a world where a grandparent must yield to the world. Thanks for this. I read this on a day when I play with Melina. I am her assistant. She is my master. A role that I relish today and will miss with my heart as she grows into this world that I will leave behind. Like you, I will be sustained by those moments where we sighs are as valuable as words. Love you my friend.
Just beautiful.
U SAY IT ALL…. AND WELL… MRS. LOCKEY WOULD BE PROUD OF YOU MEG.
Querida Meg, As always your writing brings tears of Joy and Sadness. Love you
Mucho, Tati
Your profound words, as usual, bring images that only the soul is able “to know”.