Between Grass And Sky: Where I Live And Work

Out to Pasture

O U T T O P A S T U R E 3 9 During my first winter at the ranch, when I was ten, I soon learned to help my new father feed cattle on weekends. I also learned that when, in his opinion , the snow was too deep for his 1950 Chevrolet pickup to get to the highway , I would be obliged to help him feed on school days as well. I looked forward to windy days with deep snow. Muffled to the eyes in wool sweaters and scarves, I stumbled behind my father to the barn. Stamping my feet, I’d watch while he wove the harnesses onto the Belgian work team, a blue roan mare named Beauty, and Bud, the sorrel gelding. The team’s size enthralled me. I wanted to learn to drive them, but my father said, “They’re not pets. They’re work horses.” Fastening straps, he always turned his back just as I held a cube of cake, an enticing mixture of grains and molasses, under Beauty’s nose. Keeping my hand steady, I’d look into her eyes, except when I glanced at my feet to be sure they were far away from her hooves. Her downy lips warmed my fingers through my mitten as her massive teeth closed over the cube. A tongue bigger than my hand folded it inside her mouth. The crunch! sounded like a bone snapping. When the horses were harnessed, my father would stand behind them, holding the reins, and holler, “Open the doors!” I’d struggle to lift the bar out of the metal braces, gasping, “I can get it!” I’d heave first one door, then ••• Hasselstrom/25-66 6/13/02 10:47 AM Page 39 4 0 • b e t w e e n g r a s s a n d s k y the other over the inevitable snowdrift outside. Then Father would cluck to the horses, shaking the lines. Bud would bow his neck and shake his mane, and they’d trot outside, hooves spraying arcs of snow. “Gee, Bud!” Father would call, or “Haw, Beauty!” I could never remember which mean “turn left” or “turn right.” When they reached the hayrack, Bud stepped carefully over the tongue, and both horses backed up in rhythm with Father’s voice, “So, Beauty. Steady, Bud.” Then he’d boost me up and I’d burrow into the hay. Standing, he’d gather up the lines, and holler, “Giddyup.” I saw his legs stiffen as the horses snorted and leaned into their collars. They’d toss their heads, blowing great steaming clouds. The joints of the wooden hayrack squealed as it moved forward . Wheels creaked against the drifted snow. Lifting their legs high, the horses trotted down the lane. Deep in the hay, I could feel the rack rise and hesitate at big drifts until Father shook the lines, and the big haunches—all I could see—bunched with effort. If the drift covered only part of the road, he guided the team around it to save their strength. I could lean forward from my hay nest and see the bill of his red corduroy cap bobbing in rhythm to the jingling harness. A clear drop of moisture trembled on the end of his sharp nose. At gates, he’d loop the lines around an upright board at the front of the rack and slowly climb down. Sometimes I joined him to try my strength against the wire gates, but usually he’d wade through the snow, wrap his arm around the gate stick, and squeeze until he could lift the wire loop and carry the gate out of the way. Then he’d climb back up and drive the wagon through. If there were cows on the other side, I climbed down with him and shooed them away until he shut the gate. Then he’d drive up the slope, the horses breathing deep and pulling hard, to a place where the wind had cleared the snow away. Handing the lines to me, he’d stick his fork deep in the hay. With one foot on a side board, he’d scramble to the top of the slippery pile. “Ready,” he’d say, and I’d glance back to see him standing with his feet spread, lifting a forkful. I’d shake the lines as he did, and try to deepen my voice. “Hup, Beauty! Hup, Bud!” Each horse would...