Who said?

Every gem is rough before it is polished, but it is not worthless because it is unpolished. Likewise, Silver retains value even under its tarnish and so does the silver-haired rancher who can truly say, "I'm not dead yet!" Somewhere in America the elderly are aging with questions of ‘what happened to my worth, my value. I’ve done so much for you, my state and the world just by doing my job of caring for animals that depended on me to fatten them up for the harvest.’ Who can imagine the long days, the heartbroken nights of losing stock for the cold or the storm or the stillborn?

Can anyone imagine the decisions that need to be made when a veterinarian is not on call to mend the sick or feeble young creature? Or run to the hardware store for the umpteenth time looking for an odd threaded screw that is required to bale up the winter supply of hay or grain? Does anyone ponder on the potential loss and what it might mean to the small farmer or rancher who stands there in the doorway watching the hail beat down what was to be the most splendid harvest of all. Can that disappointment be truly known by anyone who has not lost it all more than once forced to start again?

Every year the rancher counts his and her heads of stock knowing that one day, there will not be another round ever again, but each year going to market rises to the focus of only the current season at hand asking, "What will the prices be this year?" "Will there be enough to cover the manure pile of bills when the auctioneer silences his calls?" At some point, that rancher must pack up the barn and clean it for the last time. Retirement comes to everyone alike when time runs out. But what happens when retirement is forced through contracts gone bad? What happens when a quitclaim proceeds a lease not enforced? Saving the ranch for a wayward child does not sound like the best idea when after the ink dries, the child says, "Get out. You were retiring anyway, so go: Be done! It's mine now."

I myself heard this story with the sad bleats in the background. "baaadmeeen... baaadmeeen... baaaaa..." knowing that sometimes the coyotes run away from four-wheelers and sometimes they ride side-by-sides or rour-wheelers of diverse kinds. Graduate School answered the bleating with bleeps of its own for me. I had no sheep, but I had children about to age out of my nest. I did not know if the power of the pen would hold up in the winter I was in or if it would help an aging rancher anywhere in America, but those who have gifts are responsible for giving them to the world.

A rancher good at what he or she does with only twenty ewes can send over 2,000 pounds of meat to America's dinner tables yearly. That is worthy of respect. That determination, drive and success comes from deep within; so when that child says roughly, "go retire", they might be blind to the inner core that screams, "Who said? I ain't dead yet!"

"Well, I didn't say that nor would I!" says a different child to the rancher. "But I will tell you what I would say!" And it may have sounded a bit like: "You've fed over 450,000 people in the past 30 years or more. This is your chess game played well. And until you say it's the end or your body leaves you without transportation, you make the call, you clean the stall and while you're at it... you might want to clean house, too, removing the child who spoke with such gall."