A Buffalo and Two Wolves

I watched his life leave his body. I heard him take his last breath.

“Let go. Just let go. You will be honored.”

He blinked once and then the light—the spirit—went out of his eyes.

Dad successfully hunted down his Buffalo. Almost a year to the day his brother and dog died. He took the Buffalo’s life with his brother’s gun. Both my uncle and grandfather helped from the Other Side. God. Wakan Tanka. Mother Mary. St. Michael. They all were with Dad as he made his straight and true shots. It was a righteous kill.

The moment will stay between him and me. But, he knelt over that Buffalo, blessing him and thanking God. This was Dad’s destiny.

(Um, God—thanks for not striking me dead with that whole joke I kept up about if Dad didn’t get a Buffalo I was done with God. And, thanks for the stomach too.)

I was that sure. I knew My Father was going to take down a Buffalo. Every bone, every bit of hid, the heart, the liver, horns, and all the edible meat will be utilized and honored. (Not the tongue, though—EW!)

A life-long dream of Dad’s. A spiritual experience. No, a spiritual event. And, I was there to share the moment with him.

“I’ll never forget this day,” he said.

“Neither will I.”

I have never been on a hunting expedition. I just never had the inclination or desire. I am NOT opposed to hunting (if it is done respectively, using the whole animal, and not in the name of a trophy). I been with plenty of animals—dear pets that I loved—when they tooe their last breath (at the vet’s office, unfortunately).

The Buffalo was different. As far as I could tell he was the biggest bull in the herd. Dad’s theory is that when hunting—animals choose to die. They allow a hunter to take them if they deem it a good day to die.

In the rolling plains of Nebraska on November 29, 2016, the wind was blowing 40 miles per hour. It had snowed the night before, and that morning was overcast with just enough snow dusting the ground. Exactly the way Dad wanted it. After the kill, the sun pushed through the clouds.

Yes, Rancher put the final bullet in the Buffalo’s spine, because he is an expert Buffalo hunter, and knew exactly where to place the bullet in the pain. Dad was not going to keep riddling the poor animal with bullets. At that point, the Buffalo was suffering. But, Goddamn he would not go gently into that night.

I thought—one shot and the Buffalo would go down. You know, like in the movies. But, that’s not the way it went. The first shot he took—I thought he missed because the Buffalo was so un-phased. The second shot made the Buffalo stop I his tracks. The third and fourth (and maybe a fifth) took him down. One pistol shot and the Buffalo rallied and tried to get up. Two more pistol shots and the Buffalo was still holding his head up. Rancher’s shot in the spine was the mercy shot.

(NOTE: TO THOSE OF YOU READING THIS DO NOT TELL DAD EVER THAT I INCLUDED HOW MANY SHOTS HE HAD TO TAKE. HE DID NOT WANT ME TO INCLUDE THE ABOVE PARAGRAPH IN THIS BLOG THAT HE THINKS SO MANY PEOPLE READ. BUT I AM DONE WITH PEOPLE TELLING ME WHAT TO WRITE. SO THERE.)

Dad is going to make this Buffalo Hunt his Own Story. And, that is fine. That is his right. He goddamned earned it. But this is My Story as I experienced it.

I felt the Buffalo after his last breath and he still felt alive. Maybe his soul stuck around for a bit. That morning this majestic, wild animal was alive and after 10 a.m., he was dead. Dad—and me—and Rancher absorbed some of the Buffalo’s spirit and soul. I really believe that. I felt it. Yes, that’s what I felt.

The day before we got the Ranch, an India in Town told was surprised that Dad was going Buffalo hunting for more than just the trophy. He was really impressed that Dad knew Buffalo were sacred and had smoked his peace-pipe before the hunt. The Indian said after Dad killed the Buffalo, to break a cigarette (everyone smokes or dips out here), over the Buffalo and smoke it. I did kinda---I only got in a puff, but I have the remains of the cigarette. God speaks in many ways.

I want dad to have made for me a small medal of  Buffalo bone that I can wear with my Saint Medals. I am thinking of getting a very small, demure buffalo tattoo. Some place on my body that only I can see. The Buffalo spilled blood for us. I feel to honor him, I should spill a few drops too.

I keep going over and over the hunt in my head and looking at pictures. It doesn’t seem real. I hoped writing this blog would make the experience more real.

I feel like this experience—the whole experience on the ranch—has been very significant. I’m just not sure how yet.

These people—they live by God’s terms with the land. They work live with and amidst animals from Corgis to Buffalo Bulls. This is their life—yes, there are schedules and things have to be done when they have to be done. It’s a hard fucking life. But—it’s true. It’s authentic. Starbucks, iPhones, and malls are not the center of their lives.

Mrs. Rancher is my age and she has a 22-year-old daughter, a 20-year-old son, and 14-year-old girl. What? I feel like a total failure compared to her. Sure I have three degrees (well, two degrees and a certification) that she doesn’t have. But she and her husband love one another. They are help-mates. And, they do travel, not that the kids are older. They have been to Rome and Greece and all over the country for rodeos. Mr. Rancher rodeo-ed for over twenty years and Son is continuing the tradition.

They are not ignorant. They have all take the opportunity to travel and see beyond their ranch, but not surprisingly they return Here, because The Ranch is Life.

They are not better than we are—well, maybe they are…

Sure--put the Rancher one 287 in Jersey at rush hour and see how they do. They would fold. Go toe-to-toe with me educationally and they lose. But, they can talk to horses and ride bareback. It's not a fault being born in the East. I will also be an Easterner. But, there is a reason This is God's Country.

Daughter 1 lives in a house on the ranch with her “townie” husband and little Blue Heeler. Townie was raised in the nearest town, over an hour away. So, he’s not a rancher, but he’s catching on better than expected. Let me just say that the town in which he grew up is way, way country by Eastern standards. She has never known a vegetarian—that’s not a phase the kids go through out here. Mrs. Rancher couldn’t believe that I’d only been to one rodeo and that the stores near us don’t sell dry ice.

In Nebraska, the schools are not mandated to provide transportation, so Mrs. Rancher drives her daughter to school, which is over an hour away ever day. Daughter 1 was married in June on horseback to someone she’s known since high school. She did go away and got a degree in Kentucky, but seeing her working with colts today—she will never leave the ranch.

“Going to school in Kentucky made me appreciate so much more what I have here.”

The driving age is 14. Everybody has shot a gun. Mrs. Rancher has never been to NYC. They don’t identify with a city. Like back East where Home Town is, we identify with NYC. In The Holy City, we identify with Chicago. Here, you can drive for hours and there is no one and nothing around but what God made as He made it.

I doubt the kind of bullying I experienced in junior high occurs here. They were SHOCKED to hear the details of my teaching experiences. There alcoholics and wife-beaters, “whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches” here, of course. Rancher and his wife knew someone with bi-polar, who acted much like Asshole--and ended up in the nuthouse. The Ranchers drink alcohol (in moderation, the way it should be drunk,) smoke[ed], and swear.

It came to me: “whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches” aren't as plentiful out Here because, well, there are way less people. But also--those people can't thrive--maybe survive--but not thrive Here. Asshole and T. would fold. There is not the safety-net of society to catch them. Or the lawyers to save them. They have to depend on family--who both Asshole and T. turned away.

I think I got it—there’s not the rush to Do Something—to Be Something or Someone—To Live Large. Kids are not expected to move away and life far from their families and experience The World. Success is not measured by money and cars. The perspective Here is Different. The Perspective and Attention is on a whole other bulls-eye. (Pardon the pun—not intended.)

And, it's just damn healthier out here. You can't just sit and eat bon-bons. At least, not on a ranch.

I read an article in the WP today about people making a big hullabaloo at Starbucks. Apparently, one guy, who is crazy anyway, shouted white-discrimination and called some people of color trash and garbage. He just kept shouting that he voted for Trump. Another person got into it with a kid—a barista—because he wanted TRUMP written on his coffee cup so the barista would have to say, “Trump you soy-latte-pumpkin-protein shot-extra hot-venti is ready.”

In Ranch, Nebraska there isn’t a Starbucks around for hours and hours. I know. When I got coffee in the Closest Town, it was 50 cents.

I did not have a real episode from Sunday until today. Tomorrow we are probably leaving. Dad says it’s because I don’t have the pressure and the schedules. No, I don’t. I am “on vacation,” not living Real Life with responsibilities and consequences. I am observing. I am safe with Daddy. But, I can’t just live like this—on vacation all the time. When I first went to The Holy City I could go a couple of days without an episode, but now that I have settled in and it’s “My Life,” the episodes have returned. I still believe The Holy City is the right place for me. But, I am my own worst enemy.

“An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: I will take a medium latte with cow milk to go, please. Name? Kate.