D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
August
2008
Voice of a Ranchwoman
Page: 3When we knew Grandpa was dying, all the kids wrote letters to him. And this was from one that my son J.L. wrote: "One day when I was 12 or 13, we were driving a bunch of yearlings from the house to the Johnny Bull, and as we came off White Rock Hill and down to the canyon you were in the lead of them, and I topped over the hill and could see you at the corner of the McMillans' fence, on Old Drifter. With your hat off. Talking. And I knew you were praying. I never knew about what, but it didn't matter. Because I was always impressed with that and I'll always remember it."
When Grandpa was sick and the doctors told him he needed to walk, he and I went on the same road. We'd both go up to the cattle guard, though we wouldn't go together. But one morning I'd gone out for my jog, and when I came back, I came around the corner, crossing the creek, and Grandpa was standing up on that berm. With his hat off. Praying. So I just stood there and waited until he turned around and went home.
Jerry was off taking care of the ranch. He couldn't be there all the time. So I stayed there with Grandpa until he died. About two days before he died, he said to me, "Don't ask me any more questions." Now that was a compliment. Because Grandpa and I had spent so much time together, recording all this cherished history, and he realized he wasn't going to be able to talk and tell me anything else. I said, "Okay, Grandpa." Then he said, "Will you keep the weeds off my grave?"
To read all the previous "Voice of a Ranchwoman" stories, see www.desertexposure.com/ranchwoman