Last week I had the honor of giving an “Author Talk” in Spearfish, South Dakota at the Matthews Opera House. If you’ve never been to the opera house, it is a beautifully restored building that hosts all kinds of arts and cultural events. It has high ceilings, glowing murals, and a grand staircase. Even the bathrooms are fancy.
I was thrilled to be invited because it’s a great place to spend time with great people, but also because I was suffering from a massive case of the Februaries, and doing anything out of the ordinary was very welcome. Putting on some pretty clothes, chatting about books, seeing some new faces — it all sounded wonderful.
I was worried about weather — the main reason we don’t plan many events off-ranch this time of year — but the day in question arrived clear and unseasonably warm.
“Finish your morning jobs and then get your car bags packed up!” I told my bed-headed kids as I went out to finish chores. “We need to leave as soon as we are ready.”
Ready
To my daughter, instructions like these mean make your bed, get dressed, brush your hair, collect some books and toys. To my son, they mean begin to invent a lego masterpiece and then be totally devastated when your mom returns and tells you that you will have to stop working on the masterpiece because you have to get ready to go “right now. Right now!”
“Right now” meant another 45 minutes of low-level grumbling — a little from the kids, but mostly from me as I remembered why I don’t usually put on pretty clothes. It’s a lot more work! Confronting the hair situation was similarly daunting.
To the car
By the time I was ready, the kids had long since completed their own preparations and had moved on to other adventures, which once again proved devastating to have interrupted. But interrupted the poor kids had to be, and then shuffled, with much consternation, towards the car.
“I don’t want to wear a coat!” my daughter said as I tried to jam her arms into her jacket. “It gets too bunchy!”
“Ok, fine, let’s just go” I replied, yanking the coat back off as gently as I could, my panic escalating with each passing moment. I grabbed my own coat, and my son’s, and added it to the giant purse, tote bag of books, and small cooler of snacks already piled in my arms.
“Let’s just go. Go! Go!” I calmly shouted again.
Honey Bee
Departure finally appeared to be imminent and I was jamming bags and coats in the car when I heard my daughter say: “Look there’s Honey Bee,” referring to one of our Nigerian Dwarf goats who we recently moved to a pen by our big barn.
“OK sweetheart,” I said. “Say goodbye to Honey Bee and get in the car.”
“No, Mama, there’s Honey Bee,” she said pointing West. My eyes followed her finger and I let out a long sigh. There, indeed, was Honey Bee, not in her pen at all, but jauntily skipping down the driveway to parts unknown.
Clean
As anyone who has ever lived on a farm or ranch can tell you, once you’ve put on your town clothes, you can not, under any circumstances, do anything farm or ranch-related unless you want to be immediately covered in dirt, hay or worse. This is a time-tested fact, as certain as gravity or taxes.
I looked down at my nice shoes and my clean sweater (which was white — white! — of all colors) and seriously considered leaving Honey Bee to her own devices. Ten minutes and 10 years off the end of my life later, I hoisted that naughty little goat up and into her pen, saying aloud to no one in particular: “Well, at least I have a column for this week.”
And so I do, which is almost as good as arriving on time with an undefiled sweater, and, all things considered, far more interesting.
