Defining Word: Gather
gath·er | ˈɡaT͟Hər | bring together and take in from scattered places or sources
A few weeks after our wedding, Rich and I drove a couple of hours north to our summer ranch. This was the start of my year of firsts on the farm—it was my first shipping day. The previous October, Rich and I hadn’t even met yet, but now, a year later, we were married (wild, I know). The cows and calves had spent the hot summer days grazing on the Canadian border with Glacier National Park in the background. The calves were no longer the small babies I watched being born the previous winter; it was time to send them off to their next destination. We spent the night before shipping day crammed in one room with my new brother-in-law, sister-in-law, father-in-law, and two employees. Since Rich and I were newlyweds, we were given the privilege of sleeping on the queen-sized bed, while everyone else slept on couches and cots around us. In the morning, we rose before the sun, pulling on layer after layer; not many words were exchanged. After sipping a cup of huckleberry-flavored coffee, with a heavy splash of cream, I followed my husband and the rest of the crew out of the warm house and into the chilly morning. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, the Rocky Mountains looming in the distance. Rich and I climbed onto a four-wheeler, while everyone else mounted their horse. The horses snorted, chomping at their bits and stomping the ground. We made our way to the pasture, where the cows bellowed, their breath hanging in the air. We spent the next couple of hours moving the cows and calves from the pasture into the corral, all of us working together, making sure none were left behind.
I’ve never thought of myself as a good hostess. I’ve shied away from inviting anyone to our house, mainly because it feels inconvenient to expect anyone to make the long drive. Do they like us enough to take the time AND the risk of a tire blowout on the gravel road? On top of that, I’m easily overwhelmed when there are a lot of people in one space. And when I’m the host, I cannot just duck out or hide away. (Well, I guess I could, but it’s probably rude.) It’s often felt easier not to invite anyone over. But a couple of years ago, after seeing photos of our crew eating dinner in the harvest field, I saw hosting in a new light. In the summer evenings, all the combines, the grain cart, and the trucks park—the crew stops their work. They walk through the freshly cut field as the brazen sun dips behind them, walking toward the dinner I prepared and the table I set.
“I love the farm, but it’s hard with kids and sports.” A friend recently said to me. We were commiserating about our boys starting basketball right after football season ended. I agreed. I’d been enjoying the few days I had with all the kids home after school, with no games on the calendar for the upcoming weekend. My son loves to play basketball, and I’m a big fan of team sports and athletics. But when practice starts at 6:30 p.m. and we live 45 minutes from town, to put it mildly, it’s a logistical nightmare. Does he ride the bus home, and then we turn around and drive him back to town for practice? Do I go to town, pick up all the kids from school, and then hang out there for three hours before practice starts? What about dinner? Snacks? Bedtime? My mind raced as I tried to figure out how to make this work. Without having a clear answer, we plowed ahead, agreeing he could play. He practiced on Monday and Tuesday evenings, and Rich facilitated the logistics on both nights, while I stayed home with the girls. On Wednesday, I made the seven-mile drive to the bus stop, bumping down the gravel road in the quiet car. Eventually, the bus pulled up, and the door opened—all three kids stepping down the stairs, into the waning afternoon light. That evening, we all ate dinner together, the starlit sky draping over us like a quilt.
The summer Rich and I were engaged was my only (short) preview of harvest. I lived and worked in the tiny town 45 minutes from the farm after leaving my career and relocating here. Most evenings, I drove out to the farm to ride with Rich in the combine after I got off work. Since we weren’t married yet, and I had a job in town, I didn’t have a role in the day-to-day activities—it was the romantic version of farm life. I watched the sun set over the freshly cut wheat field, the golden stalks of grain falling behind us, as the kernels of wheat poured into the combine’s grain tank. We spent hours, just the two of us, talking about our future, learning more about each other. We talked about our wedding, and I asked for his input on the details, some of which he cared about and most of which he didn’t. He wanted the day to be how I wanted it. He said he just wanted me to be his wife. I don’t remember much about that harvest, which isn’t surprising since I wasn’t immersed in this life the way I am now. I only remember the occasional rides in the combine and the rattle of the grain, as we brought in my first harvest.
One of the biggest challenges and blessings of farm & ranch life is working with family. There are in-laws and spouses, those who grew up on the farm, and those who did not, along with many personalities and temperaments. Everyone has different ideas on how things should be done and how things have always been done. Holidays with your family also look like holidays with your co-workers. Each of us brings something different to the table—skills necessary for success—but it doesn’t come without difficulties. Difficulties that are rarely discussed in polite company. I’m grateful to have witnessed a vast improvement in how we communicate over the past 12 years, but we’ll always be a work in progress. Early in our marriage, I mostly sat back and listened, taking it all in. Later, when Rich and I were alone, I asked him, “Did you notice that so and so was upset?” And often, he hadn’t. Over time, I’ve found courage and my voice in our operation. Even when I’m not talking, I’m always listening and noticing, taking the family’s emotional temperature. And when something feels off, I bring it up, asking questions and making sure everyone feels seen and heard.
This essay format is inspired by Amy Krouse Rosenthal, as seen in Textbook.
Keep writing! It’s so lovely!
So fascinating! (I keep thinking of Ree Drummond and her first memoir, about the years before she got married, and her first year of marriage, and which I found delightful.)