The high parts of the ranch look like West Texas, all prickles and dust. The spring fed creek still has a few pools, but is no longer running. Last summer I slept on the screen porch and was almost deafened by the deep throaty sounds of the toads. This year, the guppies most likely lost their incubator. The sounds this summer are more cicada and crickets, a joyous summer sound, but I wonder if I will ever hear that toad chorus again.
The neighbor upstream dammed the creek and there is not enough water to overflow his dam and downstream. Our neighbor downstream said he has a right mind to blow the dam up, and I think I would be willing to help. I know all this after a conversation with Glen, 
our hay baler. This morning he walked up to the door with another man, Mike, unannounced, so I had to quickly throw on a pair of coveralls to greet them. We did a porch chat, and I kept wondering if I was supposed to ask them to sit, offer them something to drink. They are very familiar to me, growing up with my grandparents’ neighbors, folks that spend an evening making a cooler of cream, and who refer to someone as a yankee if they weren’t born in Texas. I have taken a shine to them right off, and appreciate their wisdom and kindness.
Texas law waives property taxes for those who use the land to produce something. With the invasion of “yankees” (aka Californians) and the general population explosion in Texas over the past couple of decades, property values have hit the roof, so we can only keep the ranch if it is tax exempt. Glen and Mike say eventually we will need to produce more than hay to qualify. We talked about cows and their tendency to tromple and poop. And bees, which are dying off at an alarming rate, especially this year, for lack of flowers. And goats, which would require much better fences than we have.
But for the time being it will be hay. Even in the drought, we have three fields that are still green. I assume it is land that is just above the aquifer or something, so in this way, we are so very blessed. I agreed to barter Glen’s labor for the bales this year, with the arrangement to be re-evaluated each year following. Glen is on the county tax board, and knows the tax collector personally, and a lot of all this works with a handshake and a solid relationship. Dan and I will get along out here just fine.
It’s a long story why we no longer have access to our west hay field, but Mike and Glen came to report that they had figured out a way to get to the huge baler back there by talking to the hand next door, to allow them to temporarily take the fence down. I hope that’s all we need, the ranch hand’s ok that is. I tried last year to reach the owner, even wrote her an old fashioned letter, but never heard from her. I just cannot imagine not knowing my neighbors, even if they are a quarter mile down the way. I will keep a look out for an opportunity to make her acquaintance.
I have used this week to walk the land, for the umpteenth time, but this time in very different conditions, trying to make the decision for where to put the barn and eventually the house. Because of the green hay fields and the creek bed greenbelt of trees that wrap around them, I am being drawn to the low ground for the barn as well as the house, like I probably would have if Dan and I had pulled up here in a covered wagon a century ago. I suppose that back then we would have had to also take into account Indian raids, but since we don’t, the low land feels snug and fertile, life-giving.
Glen told me that Mr. Mattas, the previous owner, had a garden and it was in the exact place I have in mind for our garden. Bees, whether ours or visiting, need pollen, so our garden will provide food of course, but also an abundance of flowers. I startled three fawns hidden in the grass today, and have sighted a skunk and armadillo too, so the garden will have to be completely fenced in, above and below. I envision a green house, lording over a garden that is enclosed by a traditional dry stack stone wall that is topped with deer-proof fencing, all energized by buzzing bees and dashing butterflies.
I have struggled for years, trying to figure out my purpose. I know I have found it here: I am to take care of this land, and its wildlife. How simple, and complicated.