Tag Archives: V6 Ranch

Visualizing What Can’t Be Seen

“Seeing is believing” is a time honored quote that has a lot of wisdom attached to it. However, in agriculture this saying can hold back change.

I have become more and more aware of the importance of feeding the soil before anything else, which can no longer be just a nice thought but a mandatory practice.  Feeding the soil is an ongoing process that is 75% visualizing what’s going on as you can’t see beneath the soil surface.  “Seeing is believing” is the other 25%.  The 25% proof is healthily growing things all around that you can see and touch.  The soil that we all stand on everyday has more life in the top one foot than all the life from the surface of our planet to the stratosphere.  Most of that life is microscopic, so to feed these critters you need a real small spoon.  That real small spoon is called a Compost Tea Brewer.  It takes compost and washes all the microscopic life leaving it suspended in water, which can then be distributed over the soil.

For most of us, me included, we have much more faith in “seeing is believing ” than in what can’t be seen.  But that is exactly what we must do.  We must put the same amount of faith into the the unseen:  the microscopic world of bacteria, fungi, nematodes and many more critters that make up soil microbiology.  This then becomes the Achilles heel of feeding the soil first.  This method that requires a certain amount of faith matched against “seeing is believing” has a tough row to hoe.

We have weeds, so we buy a herbicide;  in short order that weed is dead. We have bugs eating our crops, so we buy a pesticide; those bugs that came to put me out of business soon lay dead upon the ground.  Our crop has a somewhat sickly look, we bring a sack of Nitrogen fertilizer to the rescue and in a matter of days a healthy green look returns.  Why would anyone in their right mind want to change a system that gives off so much instant gratification?

For many years I drank the Kool-Aid with the rest, but I can no longer turn a deaf ear to all of the disturbing events that present themselves almost on a daily basis.  The chemical industry has produced some 80,000 new chemicals, which do not exist in nature.  What disturbs me is the fact that not all these chemicals are user friendly to us or the environment.  I know that the whole world is one big chemical factory, but Mother Nature has her chemical factory in perfect balance.  I’m not so sure our man made factory is as well balanced.  In fact I’m sure it’s not.  So I’m going to cast my lot first with the microscopic world knowing that Mother Nature doesn’t deceive.  Then I’ll add some patience and I’m sure that happy green growing stuff will sure enough surround me.
See Ya
Jack

Comfortable Shoes

When I was young and in my prime I used to wear those traditional cowboy boots with the pointed toe and high heel.  At the top of each boot was a loop big enough to put your index finger into.  Then with some grunting, heavy breathing and pulling, your foot slipped into place just like a tongue giving a French kiss.  Back then, any cowboy worth his salt knew that this style of footwear allowed your foot to come out of the stirrup if your horse was really serious about bucking you off.  I was in the camp who knew that getting bucked of was more likely than staying on and the ground was going to greet me shortly.  With that in mind, I’d better be looking for the best place to land, and I didn’t want my foot hung up in the stirrup when I took my high-dive.

But no more!  Today I ride my friend Fuzz, who assures me that he doesn’t want to use all his energy to put me on the ground.  Besides, we have a mutual admiration for each other.  With hitting the ground no longer an issue, and no longer wanting to make a fashion statement, comfortable shoes with no point-to-the-toe here I come!  Today my toes can wander, no longer trapped inside like a bunch of folks squeezed into one of those high rise elevators in New York City.

I’m also finding pleasure riding a new horse who my daughter has loaned me for the spring cattle drives.  Bugs is closer to the ground, so gravity is not such a big issue.  I can throw my saddle on without having to grunt and groan.  Getting on a tall horse used to be a big event that required hunting for a log or a rock to stand on.  With Bugs, why, I can just get to his high side and hop on like I could in my younger years.  Yes, comfort is more important these days than the pain of breaking in new shoes.  My current shoes have take care of my feet for the past four years. They are so comfortable that they are going to get the call for almost any occasion.  Happy toes are more important to me than people’s opinions.  I mean the people who see me coming and whisper to each other that if that guy had just saved for his older years he wouldn’t have to wear those scruffy, comfortable shoes.
See Ya
Jack

Bailing Wire

Living 5 miles north of Parkfield makes me just about a one hour drive to our closest town, Paso Robles.  The return trip takes another hour plus shopping time so what usually happens is that most of the day is gone by the time you return home.  So, how do you fix things without going to town?  Almost on a daily basis something breaks!
A few years ago on the V6 Ranch there would have been an abundance of bailing wire.  But bailing wire has been replaced by bailing twine which has filled the void with almost as many uses as bailing wire but not quite.  For instance, you can check to see if a battery is charged by touching the positive pole to the negative with bailing wire and watch the sparks fly.
Another instance happened the other day as I was driving my pickup down a rough dirt road; my steering tie rod fell off.  So with no steering I was forced to stop and make repairs.  Looking into my big tool box under my pickup bed there they all were waiting to save me from a long walk:
1. A nice big hammer to pound the tie rod end to the steering control box.
2. My handy tool box produced some old bailing wire to keep the tie rod from falling off with a twist from my Leatherman.
3. Then to really secure this repair job there was in its entire silvery grey splendor, duck tape.
Now with all the confidence in the world I head for home.  Several days later I drive to town for a proper repair job and wheel alignment.  The mechanic grinned and said, “What do you need me for?”
My bridal reins break, my horse is kind enough to stop, bailing wire again answers the call by sewing my reins together.  And away I go. The uses for bailing wire in my era were endless so it is kind of sad to see an old friend put out to pasture.
Good bye bailing wire. I’ll miss you!
See Ya
Jack

Is Sustainability Possible?

It better be, because as I see that the status quo of our present agricultural model is not working.

The over-use of nitrogen fertilizers is causing them to leach into our underground aquifers as nitrates.  The nitrates pollute the aquifer before we pump water to the surface in a tainted form to grow our crops.  Then we wonder why so many people drink bottled water. Over-use of the herbicide RoundUp has caused weeds to mutate and become RoundUp resistant.  The list of law suites grows daily claiming the herbicide causes cancer.  The oldest agricultural practice of all, plowing the soil, is now being called into question because of the loss of top soil to erosion. This is caused by the exposed bare soil to wind and water.  I could go on and on sighting instances of farming practices that are mining our planet on a world wide scale that are not sustainable.  But before I numb you all to the pillaging that is going on 24/7 to our home called Earth, I want to pose the question: “Is their a better way?”  I believe there are better ways; some of them known and some yet to be discovered.  Those of us that raise the food and fiber for the masses must also ask the question: “Is there a better way or is there a different way?”  My frustration is that so few are willing to even ask the question.

I believe change will come as our old sclerotic farmers and ranchers pass from the scene.  What is ironic as I wait for kinder and more effective ways to raise our veggies and livestock?  The answer is showing itself with a new breed of kids on the block coming from our cities and families that don’t make their living from agriculture.  This new generation is passionate about their new found profession and are not weighted down with the millstones of tradition.  Some will argue that you don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.  I’ll agree to saving the baby but you must promise to at least teach him to ask the question: “Is there a better way?”
See Ya
Jack

10:51 P.M.

That’s what time it is according to my iPad.  I’m cozied down in my Lazy Boy recliner.  Having just downed a glass of Gatorade and a T.V. dinner, I’m ready to tell you all about our last four and one half hours.  Tomorrow I’ll be harvesting eight of our grass-fed bevies using a mobile harvest trailer that allow cattle to be harvested at the ranch with a USDA inspector approving of the process.  We saddled up about six this evening, loaded our horses in our gooseneck trailer, and headed to our permanent pasture ranch where we raise our grass-fed bevies.  Here, there are 150 little Brahma cross-breed calves that will stay at the V6 Ranch until next summer when they will be sold.

It’s cooled off now in the day, and as we approach the cattle, I can tell that they feel like running (or stampeding).  Well all it took to ignite this swarm of bevies was an ill timed bark from one of our dogs… and the race was on.  I’m sure this mess would have been nipped in the bud if lion-hearted Bob was along, but I left Bob at home to let some of our other dogs try out their skills at controlling this mob.

The first thing to go was the electric fence, and next was a gate that was left open.  Half of the mob headed right for the gate, and on to the county road they went.  Boy I hope there are no cars coming. Still running, the leaders of the crowd spy my neighbor’s driveway… and in they go!  I’m sure glad there are no flowers to contend with.  I get around the leaders and back on to the county road they go, still running.  Luckily there are no cars in sight.  How many cars are using passing through Parkfield, population 18, anyway?  Zee was positioned to turn the runner back into the field where we started.  We watch now as the run becomes a trot and the trot becomes a walk.  It’s almost dark as we enter the corrals with our eight grass-fat steers and 10 little ones who sort themselves off easily so we can put them back into their pasture.

It’s dark now as I back my son-in-law’s trailer into the alley so we can load the cattle.  Upon opening the trailer gate, I see the front quarter is taken up with Mike’s ATV, but I felt there was enough room for cattle behind the panel that separates his iron horse from my cattle.  Loading in the dark can be hazardous to your health because it’s hard to tell who your friends are.  As I’m bringing the cattle toward the trailer, Zee is behind the trailer gate ready to close it.  In they go, except one sweet thing that makes a pass at me and doesn’t go in. You bitch, don’t you know I’m tired and it’s time to go in the trailer?  Zee closes the gate because we decide to load her in the other stock trailer with our horses.  After switching rigs, we’re ready to load Sweet Thing.  She’s as black as the night and she’s lost her sense of humor.  Plus the back of this trailer has french doors, which are hard to close on cattle that don’t want to stay in.  We have her in a crowding pen where she is trotting around and having a teenage melt down.  My hope is that she might like the trailer more than the crowding pen.  She goes in, and back out.  I’m climbing the fence like bull riders do after being bucked off.  Just in time as she gives out a blood curtailing bawl and blows snot on me then laps the pen and jumps in the trailer again. “Close the gate,” I yell.  Zee says I’m afraid she will knock me down coming out of the trailer. Well this bitch has been in and out of this trailer 8 or 10 times by now.  I’m also afraid to get flattened by old what’s-her-name.  But macho men never let on that they’re afraid.  Good form is to urge your wife not to be afraid and try again.  Besides, dear, you know I’ll take you to the hospital if you get flattened.  I think sweetie pie’s adrenalin must be wearing off by now as she’s been in the trailer several minutes, so I jump off the fence and blindly try to close the trailer.  I close the divider panel from the outside and I’m ready to load my horses.  Sweet thing blows snot at me one more time as I tie mine and Zee’ horses in the trailer. Driving home I’m thinking, I haven’t had an adrenalin rush like that in awhile.  Life is good.
See ya,

Jack

A Horse’s Point of View

I have been around horses for most of my life on a daily basis.  My wife Zee spends most of every day working with our herd of horses. She trains the young ones, exercises others, and plays nurse to any that might need some TLC.  With two lifetimes of experience observing these very social animals we’re going to now act as interpreters for a conversation we overheard between two of our senior citizens by the names of Hot Shot, age 25, and Pozie, age 20.
Hot Shot, this day, was in a philosophical mood and was pondering whether the horse was better off after casting its lot with we humans some 5,000 years ago.  Pozie thought for awhile and then with her horse sense she came to the logical conclusion that her ancestors had plenty of chances to cut and run because the planet was not very crowded back then.  In fact, it’s only been in the last 1,000 years or so that we really started losing elbow room.
Well, Pozie came to the conclusion that as badly as we’ve been treated by our human master over the millennia there must have been more pluses than minuses.

Hot Shot appreciated her view on the subject and responded with his own bit of logic. “Pozie,” he said, “You know we can’t change the past but what about you and I coming up with the pluses and minuses that we like and dislike about today’s world. Pozie you go first.”

“Well luck has certainly been with all of us that have been able to live out our lives here on the V6 Ranch.  I don’t know of a nicer part of California than right here in Parkfield.”

“But some of my flat land relatives might argue that point saying that you guys spend most of your time either going up or down a mountain. And frankly, that looks like a lot of hard work.”
Pozie’s reply to the issue of hard work was that if you’re in good physical shape the mountains are a piece of cake.  Hot Shot chimed in saying that too many of our city brethren are  looking a little large around the girth and maybe some mountain climbing might be in order.

“Hot Shot it’s your turn now.  What good and bad things can you think of?”

“Well I’ll start with the new training methods that are being practiced today.  It’s a much kinder and gentler way that most trainers use today.  The modern horseman acknowledges that we in the horse world have a brain and that most of us want to please our owners.  We will tell you with graphic signs of our content or discontent.”

Pozie says, “I like that! Why don’t you tell our readers some of the body language that we use to let you know how we’re feeling at the moment?”

“Okay I’m going to start with my eyes, they reveal a lot about my personality from fearful to fearless, somber to hysterics.  My eyes are a window to my inner feelings.  Next are my ears.  If my ears are pinned back I’m saying, you there, yea you on my back. That horse behind me keeps pestering and threatening me and I know he is back there because of my eyes being placed on each side of my skull that allow me to see clear back to my tail. So please see if you can’t fix the problem.  Now if my ears are more or less straight up I feel relaxed and am enjoying life and looking forward to tomorrow.  My ears pricked forward means there’s something going on that I need to know more about.  Like: do I run like hell or is it much ado about nothing?  And when you approach me in the corral and my ears are forward looking and I start licking my lips I’m saying I’d like to be your friend. Pozie why don’t you tackle ‘tell tale signs’ a cliché from the horse and buggy days?”

“Ok, if my tail is hanging straight down everything is cool.  Now if I start swinging it back and forth slowly at first I’m slightly peeved.  As my tail moves faster I’m getting more and more upset and when I start to ring it in a circle I’m pissed and I may even pee a little.  I want you to stop what you’re doing like constantly poking me with your spurs.  I don’t mean you have to take your spurs off because they are a valuable tool if used correctly. Your turn Hot Shot.”

“There’s one that really bugs me: horses that become weavers or cribbers from being confined with no exercise.  But Pozie, I think it’s time to look at the positive side with our owners.  I think that we are much better fed than my brethren of the past century when we were simply beasts of burden that had no feelings.  I like the way our strengths have been cultivated so that we who like working cattle can work cattle.  Others who like to run can run around a race track or around a barrel.  Pacers and single footers can rack on and you work horses think that pulling a freight wagon is fun.

Well Poz I hope that most of our kind don’t want to go back 5,000 years, but choose to live this day and look forward to tomorrow.”

See Ya,
Pozie and Hot Shot

What’s in a Smile?

I was never much of a school yard scrapper.  On the other hand, I have always had a fair amount of confidence.  Some would call it “cocky” that I wore on my sleeve.  That made me a target for some of my classmates who found much joy in school yard scrapping.
Until my senior year in High School, I was smaller than most other students. This, for some, made me a sure victory.  So when confronted I developed the art of smiling; it became and effective shield that kept me from wearing black eyes to school.
I was not a great believer in the old saying “it’s not the size of the man in the fight but the size of the fight in the man.”  I had a different old saying: “he couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.”  I believed it to have some truth.  When I was young, my mother called me Sunny but by around 8 or 10 years of age she seemed to know that it was time to start calling me Jack.  This was okay by me but I didn’t give up wearing a friendly face that was now my comfortable companion.  I started to understand how smiles open many doors and put people at ease.  A smile makes it hard to fight with a guy.
I’ve come to some conclusion over my lifetime. What I discovered was the top of my list is to “SMILE.”
1. Smiles are like welcome mats.

2. Smiles never go out of style.

3. Smiles are always in demand and they don’t cost anything to give.  You just simply turn the corners of your mouth to the up position from the down position and amazingly your attitude will follow.
4.  I usually find the greatest benefactor of a smile is myself.  When I smile I’m spreading around some joy and that makes me feel good.

5.  Smiles are contagious. So go laugh more, live more and the world will be a better place because you smiled.
See Ya
Jack

Pistachios Should be Grown by the Elderly

What else takes about 7 years for the grower to harvest his first nut (this guy is nuts) and 10 years to be able to start paying some bills?  Just think, if a person wants something to look forward to, why not a pistachio? Yes, there are other options out there, like wine grapes, which take as few as 3 years to come into production.  And if you drink enough of your own raising your liver will probably succumb from having too much fun, taking you with him.  Or you could raise oranges; now what could be better than that?  Why, you would never be deficient in vitamin C.  But are you ready to get out of bed at midnight on the coldest nights of the year to start your wind machine or sprinklers to keep your beautiful oranges from freezing?  I’m not.  So for me it’s pistachios.  I get more years to look forward to my first nut to go with the two I’ve already got.  Just think: when I’m 90 I’ll be able to start paying the bank back.  Now many of you at this moment are thinking, this guy is missing a few bricks out of the load. Well, it’s too late to try to reason with me as the trees are coming and I have to get ready.
See Ya
Jack

What You Think of Me

I have always known my father-in-law was exceptional!  For twenty-two years I have witnessed his ideas take shape with a genius only time, trials, and wisdom can perfect.  Life’s experience is that clay that we shape, chisel, and mold continually.  In this deeply personal and honest writing you can see that Jack’s mold was complex but it has created something of the utmost beauty for us all.  Enjoy this writing and take away what you need to continue to shape your mold.  I know I certainly will.

Barb Varian

I hope the exposé to follow will be helpful to those out there who have struggled with unreasonable fear that diminishes joy and quality of life.  I hope you will find comfort and strength from some of my struggles so that you might better deal with your demons.

What you think about me is none of my business…

 

My first encounter with sheer terror took place when I was about 8 years-old.  The year 1943 my family was in the town of Garden City, New York, during World War II.  As gas was rationed, long trips (meaning 25 miles or more) were out of the question.  My dad came home one day after work and announced that he and a friend from his work place– Sperry Gyroscope Co.– had learned of an old abandoned gravel quarry that had closed because of a high water table.  A good sized pond had formed that was at least 20 feet deep and perhaps a quarter mile wide.  Our soon-to-be swimming hole for the duration of the war was but about 5 or 6 miles from our home.  I was a pretty good swimmer and always looked forward to our summer outings there.  

One particular summer evening I swam out toward the middle of the lake and was in the process of turning back toward the shore when this overwhelming feeling that something was grabbing my ankles and was going to pull me under the water overcame me.  I began to scream uncontrollably.  My father immediately dove into the water and came to my rescue.  As he approached me the fright that had engulfed me subsided as quickly as it came on, leaving me embarrassed and ashamed.  

The next time I was overtaken with unreasonable fear was that same summer.  My sister and I decided that it would be fun to gather some rocks and throw them from the roof into a puddle that was left over from a thunder storm the night before.  My sister was sitting on the roof above me.  As I stood up to throw a rock my sister had just released her rock which struck me in the back of the head.  In an instant blood was gushing from the wound.  I asked, “Am I going to die?”  Her reply of, “I don’t think so,” was of little comfort.  It wasn’t until my mother washed off all the blood, assured me that I was not going to die that a feeling of relief came over me.  In the end, I was left with another questioning thought: Am I a coward?

It was several months until a new paranoia took center stage; this one only happened when it was time to go to bed and I was alone.  I realized there must be something under my bed that was going to grab my legs.  So for the next several years I would run from maybe a three feet distance to jump into bed.  This had to be kept a secret because my father was so brave that I knew he would be disappointed.

I felt like now I needed to sustain some injuries that could show myself and my peers that I was not a coward.  Broken bones would be the answer.  So in my teenage years I managed to break my arms three times by skiing, falling out of a tree, and falling off a horse. 

It was in my teenage years that being popular in high school became very important to me.  One of my self-imposed conditions for being cool was to get poor grades, but at a subconscious level I knew I was pretty smart.  I slid through high school with a bunch of C’s and some B’s (enough to get me into Cal Poly college).  

In my senior year, fear still lurked in my being but I had ways of disguising it.  One way was to always take my car when it was time to go cruising and looking for girls.  Sports came in the form of being on the swim team.  I was average. I could still be cool and not be a jock.  My summer job working on a cattle ranch further endorsed that I was no coward, but secretly I was a closet one.  I was even afraid of the dark.

The year is 1957.  In order to meet my selective service commitment, I joined the Army Reserve that summer and reported to Fort Ord, California for 6 months of active duty training.  The first 8 weeks of basic training went well; after the first week of training  I was given the duty to be the platoon guide for our company.  This gave me a certain amount of authority that I tried to use judiciously over my fellow grunts (as we were known by our drill sergeant) and my own private room.  The next 8 weeks I was to spend in advanced infantry training.  

Paranoia again overwhelmed me, but in the army you don’t just walk away to be out of harm’s way.  Somehow my mind washed my memory clean of the event and that placed me in the Ft. Ord psychiatric ward. What a devastating and disgraceful time this was. The doctor who came to talk to me about what to do next thankfully had an answer. 

“Are you mechanically inclined,” he asked.

I replied,” It’s right up my alley.  “I loved working on cars in high school.”  Well that sealed it, and the next day I found myself in a motor pool unit classroom learning to repair trucks the army way.

However, panic would not let me go, and a claustrophobic fear overwhelmed me again.  Back to the psychiatric ward again, where my same doctor came to visit me.  

This time he said, “You know, Jack, the army isn’t meant for everybody, so I’m going to discharge you.  I know that you can do more for our country as a useful citizen.”

I doubt if the famous World War II General George C Patton would agree.

I was discharged with a small suitcase that contained some clothes, a bar of soap, and my toothbrush, and a great dearth of emotional baggage.  That baggage would later lead me down many roads in search of peace and usefulness.

The fall quarter at Cal Poly was about to start.  I knew that I wanted to finish school.  Zero, my wife-to-be, hung in there with me.  On June 21, 1958, we were married in Corona, California.  After a few more weeks of summer school, I graduated from Cal Poly with a B.S. in Animal Husbandry.

With some help from my folks, Zee and I were able to buy a 2,700 acre ranch west of Paso Robles CA for $70,000.  This purchase proved the old saying “you get what you pay for,” which in my case was not much.  I was like the young man digging in a pile of horse manure and was heard to say, “What, with all this poop there must be a pony here someplace.”  Zee and I looked for that pony for three years and never found him, so we decided to look for greener pastures before we went broke.

We spent a couple of weeks looking around our western states but the thought of spending six months of each year shoveling snow didn’t sound very appealing.  So, home to California we came.  We were home barely a week when a friend of ours who was also in the cattle business said that his realtor brother had a listing on a ranch near Parkfield, California.  Compared to the brush pile we called home, this was Camelot!  Fifty-one years later I can tell you with confidence that we couldn’t have made a better choice.

In spite of a beautiful wife, family,  and a great ranch to ply my ranching skills, unreasonable fear still haunted me.  A still hidden demon turned every moment of triumph into a moment I felt I didn’t deserve.  A graphic example of that feeling happened in the spring of 1978.  It was a wonderful year because of generous amounts of rain and a very strong cattle market.  Phil Stadtler was my man who could buy all my cattle and make me enough money to pay off both ranches and deposit a million dollars in the bank.

 Instead of hugging Phil when he said, “I’ll take them,” I replied, “I think I need to talk to my accountant.”

Phil said, “The offer goes with me and it may not be there when you get done talking to your bean counter.”  

But I was in a cavalier mood and replied, “We’ve got a great market and all experts say it should last.”  

You guessed it, the market proceeded to take a dump along with Phil’s offer but I was still full of bravado and told all in earshot I’m going to feed them out and sell them as fat cattle.  It took 20 years to heal my pocketbook but there was a silver lining for me and eight years of anxiety for my family while I traveled down a lot of dead end streets.  

To all the players that helped me search for meaning and to feel worthwhile in my skin, thank you.  Each helped me to expose my demons that have caused me to do lots of stupid, absurd, stupefying deeds.  Thank God that what came next was a belief that it was my responsibility to change how I react to life situations.  What followed for me, were piles of self-help books, psychiatrists, psychologists, religion, biofeedback, yoga, exercise, friends, work, and most helpful of all, a teaching called Support Group Network as taught by Dr. Robert Simmons. 

Dr. Simmons lectured the group for the next several months on how we might fulfill our expectations toward a more satisfying life.  After our formal training was complete, we broke up into groups.  There were thirteen people in my group.  The first order of business was to have a name for our group that we could rally around.  How do you come up with a name that everybody from different walks of life could agree on?  Well it was easy, after one of my new friends– a lady with no makeup and hair in her armpits– stood up and said “Let’s be EGG BOKS. It stands for everything is going to be okay. We all agreed that name would suit us. This started my five-year journey of every Monday night meetings that started promptly at 8 pm and ended at 10 pm with a rotation to each member’s house that could accommodate all thirteen EGGBOKS.

The first year of my journey was illuminating, as I was to learn that other people in the group had problems besides me and that each of us was encouraged to discuss any and all problems and situations with no judgment.  There was one exception and that was criminal behavior was not to be brought before the group.

For various reasons, six people left the group within the first year.  I was hooked, and looked forward to each Monday night and always felt that my time was well spent.  By the end of our fifth year, there were five of us left in the group.  With many of our group’s personal demons now lying dead or dying it became obvious by some grand design each of the last of us decided that we had gained enough life skills to venture out on our own new worlds, with views quite different than the old ones we once held.

I believe the year the EGGBOKS disbanded was 1987.  I was ready to turn 52, and still had a large debt with Farm Credit to cure.  I was just about ready to present to the public the Varian Ranch, a new way to develop land, and hopefully pay off my debts.  My vision for this development was to leave a much smaller footprint on the land. The homes would be clustered on one corner of the ranch to leave 98% in tact to retail its agricultural value. 

With just a couple of months needed to complete the project I received a call one day from the new manager at Farm Credit to inform me that I no longer had the line of credit that I needed to finish the project.  In the 1980’s the U.S. farm credit system was in just as bad of shape as I was.  That meant anybody that didn’t fit their new formula for credit worthiness got the ax.

What to do! What to do! First you gulp, then gulp again.  Then you ask the caller, “Are you sure you have the right Varian?”

The voice replies in what I was sure had a gleeful tone to it, “Your line of credit is cancelled as of this moment.”

Jack, remember all the old sayings that you thought so much of?  Well, you better hope they work!  And you can start thinking of them right now. Winners never quit, and quitters never win.  Never yell whoa in a bad place.  When you’re at the bottom the only way is up.  

I’m sure that each of you out there in blog land have your own way to make the best of a bad situation. My mantra must have worked, because I found financing and finished the project that went on to win “The Best in the West 1988 Gold Nugget Award for a Residential Land Plan on 25 Acres or More.”  The project was well received by the buying public, so Farm Credit got paid off completely and all the rest who put off collecting their bills could now take their checks to the bank.  

To the many that supported me as I worked to implement this new and kinder way to have people who work in the city but want to live a rural lifestyle, a heartfelt thank you to all!

It was now time to get back to doing what I enjoyed most, running our home ranch in Parafield.  The 1980’s were a very enlightening time.  Decision making could no longer be dogmatic or “it’s my way or the highway.”  I knew that I couldn’t find the answers I needed in the traditional cattle world.

The year is now 1991 and California has been plagued with six years of subnormal rainfall.  I had cut the numbers of cattle that I stocked the two ranches with significantly, but Zee and I knew we had to find new ways to keep the wolf from the door.  Much to my good luck, I received a phone call from a close friend of mine.  He asked if  I would like to attended a seminar in Paso Robles on new ways to make decisions about how you manage the land you steward.  The name of the organization was Holistic Management.  It was founded by Allen Savory, who hailed from South Africa and saw things in a totally new and refreshing way.  After the seminar, I was free to look in all directions for other ways that didn’t violate my holistic beliefs that could add income to pay the bills.  

Again, luck was with me as Zee and I had just recently watched the movie City Slicker starring Billy Crystal. “Zee we can do that; we have the horses, the land, and the cattle.”

This year will be our 20th year having guests contribute to our economic well-being.  In return, our family, the beauty of the Cholame Valley, and lots of nice horses and cattle to work with leaves most knowing they had just participated in something meaningful, unique, and fun.

The 1990’s saw the passing of our dry years and into a decade of friendly ones that had lots of rain.  This afforded me running room to practice throwing all those methods out that no longer met the goals of Holistic Management and replace them with ones that did.  After several years I was able to come up with a simple sentence that made the ranch management decision making process easier to monitor… SLOW DOWN WATER.  If the decision that you made increases the velocity of water, it’s most likely wrong.  Likewise, if your decision tends to slow the speed of water, it’s most likely right.

My demon that has caused me a lot of grief in my life is probably deep in my subconscious laying in wait like a dormant virus. It’s waiting for the right circumstance to show itself.  But what it doesn’t know is that over time I’ve developed new ways to cope.  That way when it shows itself I can recognize it early on and knock it out of my mind before it gets a head of steam.  I’ve got the tools to send it back into hiding.  Each time it shows itself, it’s much less the grand combatant and more a tired warrior whose time has passed.

My hope is that for those of you that could be suffering from any or all of my now receding travails might find one or two pearls of wisdom for your life’s puzzle and feel the wind at your back more often.


                              See Ya
                                 Jack

 

P.S.  If the time comes when it is necessary for me to act bravely, I think I will.  But I could falter.  I dearly hope not.

My Bladder is No Longer My Friend

I guess this is just one more part of my old body that these days thumbs it’s nose at me and makes me have to “go” at some of the most inopportune times.  I guess this is payback for all the times that I made you wait, dear bladder.

My memory, that before could remember dozens of phone numbers and was able to recall a school text book for an upcoming test, is gone with the wind.

I want to say how much I appreciate the old friends whose names I can’t bring to mind.  These friends don’t leave me to play 20 questions in my mind but instead gives me his or her name straight away, no big deal.  My brain reminds me that my memory loss probably happened because I overloaded it for so long with worry thoughts that got me nowhere and only squandered a lot of brain cells.  You jerk, says my brain over and over.

Wait, I’m not done yet.  I want to whine a little more about a most delicate subject that for today’s millennias is probably hardly worth a snicker.  What is it Jack?  Well, it’s about farting.  I just can’t slip one out anymore with no one being the wiser.  Instead, my flabby old sphicter muscle is no match for a determined fart that’s headed for the exit door.  This is where one of my most trusted mottos comes to my rescue: What you think about me is none of my business.  So proper ladies can titter, youngsters can giggle, and some can say “oh how gross,” but at my age I feel nothing but joyful relief.  And, with any luck at all, tomorrow I will again be releasing more methane gas into the atmosphere.  I will be doing my share to help with global warming.

I also need two hearing aids to hear, sort of, and glasses to see, somewhat.  But for me there will always be a silver lining.  I’ve still got most of the teeth in my mouth that help me when I smile.  I still get a thrill when I get out of bed in the morning to greet the day.  I can close my eyes and touch my left index finger to my nose and then my right index finger to the same nose.  Now who could want more?
See Ya,
Jack