A Mantle to Wear Gently

Obituaries. Once upon a time, you didn’t pay to put a loved one’s obituary in the newspaper. The information was submitted, and the editorial staff edited the information to match the style of the paper. As such, you never really saw verbiage such as “left this plane of existence to walk the heavens with her beloved pet goat she called Bagel.” 

You also wouldn’t see an octogenarian or more described as having died unexpectedly.

Death is as much a part of life as birth, breathing, and taxes. We don’t like to face that this moment ends, because the reality is, no one knows for certain what exactly, if anything, lies on the other side of a heart that has ceased its perpetual rhythm. Still, there are moments when death is no surprise. Sometimes death is a gift: when a loved ones lengthy relationship with pain and suffering finally concludes, we feel relief and gratitude. 

In that case, the idea of death is more bearable than the reality of endless agony.

Uncle Hank was not afraid of death. In fact, he not only built his next “home,” he had half a mind to remodel it! As we were visiting one day, he gestured to the two wooden boxes stacked beside my chair. He said his urn might not be done, as he might want to wire it for electric, in case he wanted heat. 

As a nonagenarian, there was a lot of life left in that man.

This is when I got to know him best. Previous to this, my memories of Uncle Hank included hiding from him and his family when they would visit my grandma and grandpa, and the receiving line at my grandma, his sister’s, funeral. Uncle Hank hugged me that day, and whispered in my ear “you could be just like her.”

My grandma left this world at 70 years old. In my early twenties, this was the most devastating loss I’d ever experienced. It would be decades before I ever felt so destroyed over losing a loved one. Uncle Hank’s words brought me back to life in that moment, and in many moments that have followed in my life. I doubt I’ll ever live up to the possibility he proposed; but in that moment, I could see Uncle Hank was a man who looked for the best in life and the people that grow in it.

Decades passed, and it was a mutual appreciation for the old Storm farmstead that brought us together. In his late 80’s through early 90’s, Uncle Hank would drop by to see the old barn. Walking through and sharing memories of his childhood in the place my family now calls home. He was a time machine - transforming a dilapidated behemoth into a strong, steady shelter for farm animals and the family that worked it. I could again imagine great-grandma driving the horses that hoisted the swaths of hay into the mow. I could feel the angst when Junior fell out of the hay mow and broke his arm. 

We could feel it, and we wanted the old barn back. 

Restoring this building is more of an undertaking than I ever could have imagined. I had no idea I would face any resistance, let alone the WALLS of negativity I have come up against. People who think it’s impractical - people who took offense to my thinking others would feel the joy the project could bring and might want to contribute in some way. 

In the face of all of that, a piece of me died. My hope took a massive hit. My faith in people I thought I could count on is lost. My heart feels slashed to ribbons. 

In the middle of all of that, Uncle Hank found the words once more.

“You have time,” he said. 

Even when I knew he didn’t. 

He knew I did. 

So gently the words came. As my frustration clouded my brain with hurt and confusion, his eyes, so clear, and easy was his voice. You. Have. Time. 

He had faith, he planted a seed, and he wasn’t afraid to dream.

I have time, and I can’t help but hold fast to this dream.

We've taken some baby steps forward, and while I yearned for more, Uncle Hank drew joy from any inch of progress made, and any talk of the plans that lie ahead. That is the mantle it is time for me to take on.

On Monday, Uncle Hank’s time on this plane of existence ran out. 

At 92, his death felt unexpected. He was still so full of life and hope that some part of me thought it would carry him through until we could walk into his barn, restored back to its former glory. At 92, he was still changing his world, and mine.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be just like him one day. 

A Broken Jewel

Despite my high hopes, positive attitude, and the care and patience of everyone on the farm, Opal will not recover. The vet is coming to put her down today. Opal hasn’t stood up in more than two weeks. I have spent the last week watching her appetite, her weight, and her spirit, dwindle. I have seen that the look in her eyes has changed from confusion and determination, to acceptance and the distance that comes when a living being is ready to leave the world.

It was my decision. Essentially, I’ve signed her death warrant. There is no easy decision here for me. I don’t like to give up on things. Even when all the potential is gone, I still search for one tiny little spark, some indicator that there is still hope. But to wait for every last spark to fade from this girl would be cruel. I have made the right decision. Her life will end before another week goes by, before she wastes away to nothing. My decision will give her peace.

I told her twin sister, Onyx, a couple of days ago. I apologized for lying to her. I had assured her Opal would be back. At the time, I believed that! I’m sure some will read this and think I am nuts. They’re just cows, Onyx doesn’t understand or care. But cows are also herd animals. They are meant to live in groups. With the exception of the few months where one was dry and the other milking, Onyx and Opal have always been together. And Onyx knows the stall beside her is still empty.

During the morning shift that I worked when Opal was first injured, she had walked to the back end of the pasture during their outside time. It took me a while to get her back in; it was a long, slow walk back. Onyx, who I’ve been told is usually among the first to go back in the barn, waited for her sister to catch up to her before she went in that day. Onyx won’t dwell on this the way a human dwells on such a loss, but I feel she does understand, and feel the emptiness.

Though this is a sad day for me, there is happiness to be found. A young heifer of mine has been moved into the “pre-fresh” area of the barn. Pre-fresh is an free-stall area (cows are not tied, but can roam about within the confines of the space) of the farm where the cows that are within a month or so of calving are housed. In warm weather, once a cow is dried off, she is put out to pasture for a while, and then brought back in to pre-fresh. In the winter, they stay in the pre-fresh area the entire time they are dry.

Lolypop, Lilly’s two-year-old daughter, has been moved into pre-fresh. My son named her when HE was two years old! We try to keep all the cow’s names to seven letters or less, so we had to misspell it to make it fit.

Lolypop is also Opal’s niece, so though Opal has no daughters of her own to carry on her genes, she does have Lolypop and a couple other, younger nieces who will continue to move forward. Though I doubt it, I have to wonder if Lolypop will be the one to stand by Onyx and fill that empty stall. I would love that! However, they tend to be placed in their stalls for more functional reasons (such as their comfort level in a particular location and how they match up in size and appearance to their stall mates) than heredity or emotional ones.

It is hard to ignore the circle of life when working on or around a farm. You say goodbye to one, and another comes up and gives you something new to celebrate! It can be a very life-affirming thing. Life always goes on. Even when you don’t feel like stepping forward, life steps forward and carries you with it. Into the next chapter.