Work-Life Balance

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.