The day

 There's been a change in the feel of the air, autumn is coming.  The misty mornings, the afternoon breeze, the color of the sky, the chill in the shadows, the red tinge to the leaves of the maples all proclaim it.  It makes me sad to see another summer go.  How very many I've let pass without notice.  How many more will I have?  For all I know, this could be my last.  Or I might have another 50.  But even 50 is such a small number.  I tell myself I should make each day count, accomplish something, enjoy, be aware, be thankful for life.  I try.  But inevitably each day is consumed by routine, by the usual demands that take up time and attention and suddenly I notice the shadows stretching toward the east, and glancing at the time, I am dismayed to see it is already past 5 o'clock.  Where did the time go?  And I still have so much to do.  Well, that's life, too, isn't it?  At least at this time of year there are still hours of daylight left at five; it's only late afternoon. 

Often, I don't eat lunch -- no time -- but I've come to appreciate the ancient advice to eat a hearty breakfast.  It will take you through the day.  And so I do.  And so if I miss lunch I don't really notice, and may not eat until sunset, often dining after everyone else has, bathed in the red rays of the setting sun, supper finished, the dishes washed and put away, the leftovers in the fridge awaiting midnight snackers.

When El Jefe eats alone, he stands in the kitchen beside the sink and often doesn't even bother to take his food out of the pans, but I set a place at the dining room table and eat just as if others were present.  

I like to help make breakfast for the working men of the ranch and I like serving them and bantering with them as they stoke up on energy to manhandle the day.  And can they eat!  A typical breakfast consists of corncakes or buckwheat cakes served with butter, maple syrup on the side, topped with however many eggs requested. There are serve-yourself plates piled high with biscuits, hashbrowns, refried beans, grits, fried steak, spam, ham, link- and patty sausages, bacon and fried tomatoes, as well as tureens of gravy, pitchers of orange and grapefruit juice and whole milk.  There are also servings of peach and rhubarb cobbler, apple and cherry pie, as well as cinnamon rolls, cake and raised donuts, strudel, bear claws and other pastries, all homemade, of course. And, also of course gallons of coffee.

For the men who won't be able to get back to the cookhouse for lunch, we prepare sandwiches and sides and thermoses of coffee.  The men request what sandwiches they want as well as what else they'd like to have, and it's a pleasure to make it for them, taking care with each item to insure it will be fresh and tasty, as well as filling.

While I'm serving the men, they call me darling or honey or sweetie.  "How about some more coffee, honey, and can you reach me that plate of hashbrowns?  Thank you, sweeheart!"  The sexism is just horrible, horrible, I tell you!

This is all over and done, the men gone, the tables cleared and the dishes washed and put away, before sunrise.  Then I go back to the house and see to things there, rousting the rug rats and house apes, seeing to their wants and needs, seeing they eat a healthy breakfast, typically oatmeal with raisins and walnuts with a dusting of nutmeg, whole-wheat toast with preserves, and dishes of fresh strawberries, blueberries or blackberries. peaches, pears or apples, depending on what's ripe.  Then they are off to a half-day of summer school at the ranch school -- yes, it's painted red and, yes, it's just one room, and it was built when Grover Cleveland was president.

Then it's time for my work day to begin....  If I get to bed before 2am, it's a miracle. I do get tired.  But I always find a little time to enjoy myself, tinkle out a tune on the piano, dance to some old records, read, or just doze off wherever I am, like a cat in a cozy spot.