Rolling Rocks
Work-Life Balance
Lessons at Hand
By Stephen L. Wilmeth
From out of
nowhere, it appeared.
Seemingly,
the world around us is obsessed with this issue of work-life balance. If
nothing else, a review of American holidays is an indicator of the importance
of leisure time and or congressional largesse in the designation of yet another
paid day of vacation for the honored class.
How else
can it be explained?
Implicit in
government is the sanctity of time off and lots of it. Corporate America has
long used the carrot of benefits as inducement of employment, too. It has
become an indicator of the American psyche but hidden in the woodwork has been
a silent consensus it is overplayed and destructive.
Reality
arrives and reminds the small business owner that any semblance of the fantasy
of work-life balance really doesn’t exist. At a recent New York Produce show,
Tim York of Markon summed it up very well. You don’t, can’t, and shouldn’t
set that expectation for yourself.
In last
month’s Forbes an article was published saying the same thing. There is no
such thing as work-life balance. Instead it noted some are now calling for
work-life integration.
How about
just calling it reality?
Rolling
Rocks
The lights
were on when hay was thrown. The horses greeted me with soft nickers. They
arrived to walk with me across the pen to turn the feed bins over and drag them
back into place. I stopped to let Carter touch my cheek with his muzzle as our
simple communication dictates and Samuel paused to have his belly scratched.
An hour and
fifteen minutes later, we were loaded and headed out. Sam was saddled. It was
his turn to make the big circle.
The Howard
pens were the jump off point. Already, a cold wind was reaching for us. The
jumper alone wouldn’t have been enough, but, with the higher tech underwear and
vest, it was warm enough. With time, being warm and riding has become ever more
enjoyable.
The wild
rag and the felt hat pulled down tight made the whole deal a bridge to the
history of this business. So did the bulldog taps that covered the spurred Olathes.
The ride
across the big tabosa flat was a reminder that holes in that thick turf in
those bottoms are serious business. Sam was fresh and wanted to trot, but a
little pressure on the ‘little S’ held him up and made him walk.
The four
pairs Tertius had seen on Tuesday at the Mesquite Drinker weren’t there nor
were any fresh tracks. Sam was allowed to drink if he wanted, but he just
played in the water, so we left and found the trail through the brush on toward
the Martin Storage and trough.
He wanted
to trot, and he was allowed to do so. Nearly a half mile later he wanted to
drop to a walk, and he was allowed to that, too. He covers ground either way, and
his big swinging walk is makes him look as good as he feels under saddle.
At Martin,
the first look was the water level in the storage. It was still about half
full, but without cattle pressure that will last several weeks before it needs
filling. No cattle or fresh tracks that were made after yesterday’s rain made
it clear the pairs were not watering there.
The ride up
the canyon toward the Carter Tank was sheltered from the wind. A bobcat track
was found before we had gone far. It was corrupted by numerous coyotes joining
the procession in visual review.
Dang, it
was a good day to ride.
Work-Life
Balance
The
manuscript is not original. It is a copy, but it is a treasure.
She had
been on the journey from Texas to home in what was to be Grant County in 1884.
The page that lies in view relates the story of the Indian raid in 1885. The
scene was from their home where they stood watching Indians steal horses up the
creek.
We stood
in front yard and watched them catch some horses. We could see one Indian
riding Dutch.
Her
description continues relating how the family and neighbors sought safety in
numbers down the creek on the Gila River Valley. At one point they took refuge
in a one room rock house and prepared to battle the Indians. Humor and fear laced
the narrative.
When the
buffalo soldiers arrived from Ft. Bayard, the immensity of the relief was
clearly communicated. Not once did she mention anything other than the soldiers
were welcome and appreciated. She did note their horses were jaded and worn out
from the long ride.
Only a child who understood such
things would make that comment. Although, she would become a member of the
first graduating class of the New Mexico Normal School (Western New Mexico
University of today), she would have had no idea what work-life balance meant.
She worked every day of her life.
Rolling Rocks, cont.
Carter Tank had some water, but no
cows had been there for several days. That was the same for the double tanks at
the Swope Place. Sam was a little unsure about the rock walled structure that
remains at the latter. He was glad to leave and start the steep climb around
the point along the fence to the south.
The grass line against the fence was obvious.
Without water on that side of the ridgeline, cattle pressure is always light.
From the
Corralitos’ double tank, the trail to the west through the saddle was found and
we climbed out through the rocky chute. Tracks were seen all the way up through
there, but they, too, were days old.
A big
headwind greeted us at the top and it blew hard in our face the entire mile and
a half down the drainage back to where the canyon leaves the gap in the ridge
and flows out onto Apache Flats. Sam was in his big swinging walk the whole
way.
At the
juncture of the twin drainages above the tank, the trail back upslope to the
southeast was taken still looking for cattle yet to be found. Up that draw and
before the trail again tops out and drops into the Georgie Basin, we found
where they had bedded the previous night. There was green, annual growth
started there in abundance and they had worked it hard with tracks thick like a
herd of goats.
Lessons
at Hand
There are
verbal renderings of my great grandmother hoeing in her gardens at sunup. There
was proof she had written in her diary at 3:30 because she often noted the time
of the entries.
I don’t
remember her singing, but one of her grandsons remembers hearing her singing
spiritual hymns as she worked. She must have found joy in how she approached
work.
This
narrative needs to be concluded because I need to once again go feed horses and
start getting ready. It’s Carter’s turn to go. He and I are going to back this
morning and find those cattle that should have but didn’t turn up in
yesterday’s ride.
It will
start off with him stretching out to smell my cheek. He will resist when I go
to catch him, but he will submit and will stand quietly as he is saddled. He’ll
load as if it is not just his duty, but his pleasure.
There is a
lesson in that isn’t there?
Our
existence would be better if our ongoing endeavors were, in themselves, the
work-life balance we seek.
Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New
Mexico.
