Vegetarian Ranchwife

Here, in Central Wyoming, we have had an absolutely beautiful fall, with trees around town crowned in eye-watering yellows, oranges and reds. Most years, we have a freeze and at least one snow by October, which turns the leaves to a soggy brown, and our constant winds send them to Nebraska, but, thanks to our mild weather, this year belongs on a postcard.

Last week, I was walking my stupid, unruly dogs on the paths by the river, in a bad mood because of said stupid and unruly dogs. The sun shone through the canopy above me, and in the glow down below, with that earthy fall smell—how does the world on the edge of decay smell so amazing?— I had a sudden affection for world, even the dogs who got me outside to enjoy the lovely afternoon.

Don’t tell them that. They bark at every passing cat and pull on the leash. As far as they know, they’re bad dogs.

I get irritated when the demands of everyday life leave me behind the wheel for long stretches of time, but even in the midst of it, falls’ glory seeps in. Stopping for gas one afternoon, my son found, on the oil-stained concrete between the pumps, a perfect twig with three pumpkin-colored leaves on it.

Over the weekend, we took an outing to the old ranch house, the historic family homestead where Kem and I lived before the complications of raising kids forced us to move to our more convenient, but less scenic location. The ranch house has some of the only trees out here, and they are as magnificent as anything on the river pathways. The kids walked around collecting sticks, leave and bundles of grass for some imaginary trading post. The dogs got muddy.  A good time was had by all.

 And yet, most of my life isn’t a weekend outing—hell most of my weekend isn’t an outing.  A large chunk of my day is making a thirty-some minute drive that hate to get the kids to and from school. Only a small percentage of that drive offers a showy display of autumn foliage; most of it is through the grasslands that many would describe as flyover country.

Before I moved to Wyoming, I had no idea that grasses changed color in the fall as well. It doesn’t hit you over the head when you’re in a bad mood, but if you look, there are stalks that turn golden yellow and rusty orange. An occasional theme that pops up in my writing is how this place has taught me to appreciate subtle beauty. It’s funny how I can put something like that in an essay and then sink back down into the drudgery and minor irritations of everyday life.

In these past few days, once I’ve got the kids packed in the car and settled all their fights, I’m trying to spend at least part of my drive, paying attention to the colors in the grass, the contours of the landscape, letting it lift my mood, if only for an instant.