Ranch Memories

Tom and I started our lives together in the heart of Texas, where the sun poured golden rays over the land and the sky stretched wide, endless, and blue. Tom had a pet horse named Zipper, whom he fed handfuls of grain and rode bareback, his legs swinging easily with each rhythmic bounce down the dirt road. I would sit beneath our great cedar tree, the shade cool on my skin, while Kurt, just five, and Carrie, six, played in the grass nearby. I drank my gatorade and stretched my bare feet into the grass. It was dead and filled with stickers, but that wasn’t anything we weren’t used to. 

Tom moved a lot when he was young, he liked to run. Maybe he was running away from family trouble or from life itself. He doesn’t talk about his parents much, but he does talk about where he has lived. Helena, Muskogee, but Pittsburg was his favorite. That’s how we met, in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. I was trying to catch a ride to Woodstock and his big blue truck pulled over at the signal of my thumb. His car was filled with dirt and the smell of cigarettes was apparent, but we talked about the weather and then about music, and we never seemed to stop talking. He never cussed, which was nice. After Woodstock, we went everywhere together. We somehow ended up, smack dab in the middle of Texas with two kids. The air here was stocky with the scent of rain, a sweet, earthy promise that hung as if the earth was waiting to exhale. 

When the kids finished playing, they joined me as I watched Tom and Zipper. Their figures were small against the vastness of the ranch, the horse’s mane flying in the wind, hooves drumming against the dirt. Suddenly, Zipper veered sharply, trotting faster, his ears pricked toward the sky.

“What’s Zipper doing?” Kurt asked me, eyes wide, his Gatorade bottle now empty and forgotten in his small hands.

“I think he senses something coming,” I told him. “Another horse, maybe? A storm? But maybe it's a snake or something.” This was the kind of place where the wind could pick up instantly, sweeping across the open plains like a warning. A day that seemed perfect could change without a whisper, and within moments, the sky would darken and twist. “This was the kind of day my little brother liked,” I shared with my kids, “When I was little, my brother would always say that the best kind of sky was after a big storm. It left the sky bruised, washed clean with bright sunlight.” Kurt and Carrie didn’t have any memories of their Uncle Danny. He died way before they were born, but every time he crossed my mind, I tried to tell them a funny story or something he loved. It made me feel like I was keeping him alive.

Danny had been my protector, the one who taught me how to ride horses and how to read the sky. He always had an answer for everything, or at least a story that made everything feel like it would be okay. Danny was a little wild—loved the open road, loved the ranch—but there was a tenderness about him, too. He had this way of talking about the weather like it was his choice where storms lay to rest, “something you couldn’t rush but had to respect.” When I was younger, he’d take me out into the fields after a storm had passed, and he’d show me the remnants—the bent trees, the dirt turned over, the wildflowers that bloomed in the chaos. “Storms leave gifts,” he’d say. “You just have to know how to find them.” After every storm, he would walk out in the grass and say the sky was smiling down at him. And then everything changed. Danny and I were out in the fields one afternoon, trying to round up the cattle before a storm came in. He was on his horse, as always, and I was on mine. He was so damn good at his work, but he was also always pushing things, going faster than anyone else would. And on that day, he did what he always did—pushed his luck one too many times.

It was just another quick storm, but the wind had picked up fast, and the dust was so thick you could hardly see in front of you. Danny spurred his horse forward, shouting over his shoulder for me to follow. But before I could catch up, a gust of wind slammed into us, and the next thing I knew, his horse stumbled, throwing him right off. I never saw it coming. He landed hard, the back of his head hitting a rock. The rest was just a blur—a blur of sirens, of running for help, of trying to remember the last thing he’d said to me. I kept hoping it was a nightmare, but it wasn’t. My brother, my protector, was gone. The one person who knew how to make sense of the storms, of the wildness of life, was taken in a moment that I could never understand.

“Mama, get a look at the sky,” Carrie said, pointing up. The once clear blue sky had shifted. A thick, swirling mass of dark clouds loomed overhead, their edges tinged with an eerie yellow glow. The air felt heavy, almost electric, and the sunlight fought through the dense veil. Kurt stood up and took a step away from the cedar. The surrounding trees began to sway uneasily in the growing wind, and the distant rumble of thunder echoed as if warning us. The world seemed to hold its breath.  

“Linda! Storm’s coming! Get it done!” I heard from deep within the grass. Tom gripped Zipper, urging him to move faster. Shadows danced beneath the shifting clouds, unleashing an unsettling yellow tint that flickered along the horizon. “Well, you heard him!” I called out to the kids. “Go get the horses out in the field and lead them to the barn. I’ll grab the key and meet you there!”

I grabbed our dog, Holly, and ran towards the house, throwing her inside and reaching for the rope and keys next to the door. I sprinted toward the barn. The wind howled, carrying an urgency that sent shivers down my spine. The clouds above continued to churn, deepening in color as fat raindrops splattered across my face.

“Come on, Zipper!” Tom urged, coaxing the stubborn mare into the barn. The kids scrambled around, their voices a mix of excitement and fear echoing in the growing storm. I kept my eyes on Kurt and Carrie as they met with their dad. I threw the keys to Tom, and he unlocked the padlock. Just then, a crack of thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the ground beneath us. “Quickly! Get them in!” Rain bled from the sky. I counted what I could. Six horses, Carrie, Tom, Kurt.

“Linda!” Tom shouted, his voice barely audible above the roar of the storm. “I’ll tie them up; you shut the doors!” I slammed the barn door shut and turned to face the kids, their eyes wide with fear.

“Is everyone okay?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Carrie shook with fear.

“It will be alright,” I said to calm her down. The dim light revealed the horses' anxious faces, their ears twitching with each clap of thunder. Suddenly, a deafening roar filled the hollow barn, drowning out everything else. My stomach dropped as I realized it was the storm coming to purge us and everything we loved. 

“Get away from the windows!” I yelled. “Head towards the back of the barn! Get as close to the back wall as you can,” A powerful gust of wind burst through, rattling the barn and sending debris flying. A wooden beam creaked ominously overhead, and I saw a loose panel break free. It was hurling towards Carrie.

“Carrie! Duck!” Kurt yelled, lunging towards his older sister. The panel slammed to the ground, missing her by inches at best. We stared at the broken wood in shock. It was the window cover, torn clean off the wall, the jagged edges like broken teeth.

We were always warned about these types of storms. We were always warned about these types of storms. Danny used to say these were the kind of storms that would shake everything down. "You can't always run, but you can always be ready to rebuild," he'd say with that crooked grin of his. “You’ll know when it’s coming, but the rest—everything else—is just noise.” He’d laugh and add, “It’s the ones that hit without warning that make you stronger.” I remember those words now, how they had always seemed to take the edge off the fear. And yet, no matter how much we’d heard it, I still felt that familiar panic in the pit of my stomach, as if Danny’s words were the only thing keeping me grounded. As the wind howled and the barn groaned under the pressure, I could almost hear Danny’s voice, calm and steady, guiding me. "Linda, don't panic," he’d tell me, his voice like a whisper in my ear. "Stay grounded. Make sure the kids stay close, and don’t let anything break through. Hold on tight, and remember—it’ll pass. Just wait it out." I clung to those words now, feeling his presence beside me as if he were still there, looking out for me, just like always.

The wind screamed as it poured in, a force that seemed to have no beginning or end. Hay and hair flew through the air, scattering in all directions like a sick, wild creature caught in a whirlwind. The barn groaned under the pressure, its walls buckling and creaking, threatening to collapse altogether. I could barely hear myself think over the howling of the storm, but my mother’s words echoed in my mind, more alive now than ever. I grabbed Tom’s hand and ran towards the back of the barn, scooping up any wood or blankets we could find. Carrie grabbed them and started shaping them into the wall, her hands fumbling over the jigsaw pieces of wood. Kurt dashed past us, his boots thumping heavily against the floorboards as he ran to the toolbox. The sound of metal scraping against metal filled the air, then the sharp snap of the flathead nails he found, one after another, as he hammered them into the makeshift structure. I could see the determination on his face, but there was fear there, too, buried deep beneath the grit and sweat.

The barn creaked again, louder this time, like the groan of something old and tired, ready to give in. I glanced over at Tom. His eyes were wide with panic, his face pale beneath the dust and grime. I squeezed his hand tighter. “Keep going,” I whispered, but even to my own ears, it sounded more like a plea than a command.

 Eventually, the wind began to settle. The storm's roar was replaced by the rustling of leaves and soft patter of rain. The kids sat in the back of the barn, talking quietly to each other. Tom and I peered through the wall panels. A slight hue of light peeked out behind a cloud.

Tom stood up and made his way to the door. “Let’s take a look.”

We walked out of the barn and into the light. The air felt cool against our skin. The scent of wet soil and the faint sweetness of wildflowers lingered from the chaos. Tree leaves scattered across the dirt. The humidity would be hell, but we were all right. I looked up at the sky.

Kurt ran out towards the field, his head tilted straight up towards the sun.

“Hey, Pa, it’s like the sky is smiling at us!”

Tom whipped around, his eyes meeting mine. I let out a chuckle and grabbed his hand. “Danny must have saved us,” he whispered in my ear. “He always thought the storms left something beautiful behind. Maybe this one did, too.”