what it should be

what it is

When’s the last time we had rain? Five weeks ago? Six weeks ago? When will our dependable Mediterranean climate finally kick in and scatter raindrops on our upturned cheeks?

I’m going to tell this story backwards. Trust me, it’s better this way, albeit illogical. I’m telling it this way because everything is hitched to everything else; and many times, those connections defy time. John Muir said part of that, and I’m borrowing it here because it’s so right.

In this case, it all ends here.

And here.

The cows need to eat. To eat they need grass. The grass needs rain. The rain doesn’t come and the winter grass so far this year is nonexistent so… Jim feeds the reserve grass, the grass hay he grew and cut right here last summer. The grass began leaping from the soil in wild abandon last year in late spring, due to perfectly spaced winter and spring rains that bumped smack into summer.

Somehow, Jim saw ahead and harvested the surplus grass, filled a whole barn with it, and now it’s here for the herd. (California, are you hearing this?) It’s been 26 years since Jim has had to feed this herd hay in the middle of winter. How could he have known?

“It was a lotta hard work, bucking this hay to storage,” Jim concedes, as he now loads the hay into the truck with Milo looking on, as he gets ready to feed the cows.

man and beast strike a pose

Of course, this is occasion for a lecture. On what? On nutrition, of course. And I listen as Jim gesticulates with the hay hooks, describing the importance of having enough ‘go’ in the feed during the winter months.

“The cows must have three things. First she has to be able to maintain herself. Second, she has to be able to raise the baby that’s at her side. And third, she has to have enough energy to come into heat and conceive a baby for next year.” (If you’re confused about that ‘next year’ timing, this post will clarify…)

Earlier in the day, much earlier, Jim drove up the hill and packed up 1800 lbs of his beef from Wolf Pack Meats in Reno. (Jim’s still taking orders, but his freezer beef is nearly all sold out until spring of 2012, and he is happy with the strong demand for his product—and grateful for his customers’ support.) With Milo in the passenger seat, Jim then drove the beef down the hill and packed it into his solar-powered freezer at Personeni ranch, which is where we are now.

We walk a few paces and study the pasture, noticing the difference between grass in the sheltered shade of an Interior Live Oak, and grass that’s been out in the open sun. Limber versus dead. “It’s just as dead as mid-August, and when it does finally rain, it won’t germinate again because the ground is too cold,” Jim explains.

Hmmm. Earlier, much earlier in my day, I carefully ladled a heaping portion of richly fragrant beef stew from my slow cooker into a glass container for my husband’s dinner (he has late shift today at the hospital). I really wasn’t thinking about how fortunate I am even to have this beef. But tomorrow when I wake up, I’ll think about the barn full of sweet-smelling, locally grown hay. And there’s Jim, leaning against the barn with hay hooks in hand, gesturing, trying to teach me something I couldn’t learn in the city. And those mooing cows along the fence, eagerly awaiting their hay—which is delivered right on time by the tractor from hell.

And tomorrow, I’ll just give up on figuring it out logically and go with the John Muir approach. I’ll lean back from the computer, step away from the code, and trust in the wisdom of that sure and surplus hay. And whatever the forecast, I’ll smile.