Published in the Houston Chronicle 09/10/00

A Rancher’s Wife

 “Watch out for scorpions and tarantulas.” My husband told me as we stepped down from his new white truck.  And then as he walked towards the long, narrow camp house he yelled back over his shoulder, “Stay away from the rattlesnakes too.” Didn’t he know that warning me about scary spiders and deadly snakes would not help me fall in love with his ranch?  Earlier in the year, my husband had bought this ranch in South Texas, very close to the middle of nowhere.  The ranch had been the realization of his life-long dream to own land.  And now he wanted me to join his dream on the weekends.  He hoped that I could become a rancher’s wife.

            To help me feel more involved, my husband asked me to name the tanks on the ranch. I don’t know the difference between a pond and a tank, but a real rancher says “tank” and so, I guess a real rancher’s wife does too. I named Cardinal tank, after my in-laws (a long story); Dove tank; Turkey tank; Hawk tank because my husband did not like Vulture tank; and Pintail tank, but my husband started calling it “P” tank so I changed its name to Owl.  A rancher’s wife must be flexible. 

            After naming the tanks, I decided to explore the ranch. For fifteen years I have been a bird watcher.  And, since South Texas is known for its variety of birds, I put my bird book under my arm and a pair of high-powered binoculars around my neck and started walking. As I scanned the mesquite trees, the white brush and the sky, looking for birds, I kept in the middle of the road to avoid rattlesnakes. A rancher’s wife must be smart or wear snake boots.

I identified a Green Jay because of its green body and harsh, raspy call and a multi-colored Painted Bunting with its blue head and red breast.  A hawk flew overhead, floating in the wind, passing over me with its shadow. I couldn’t identify the different hawks flying around on the ranch, but I could tell the difference between a Turkey Vulture and a Black Vulture even though they are both ugly and ominous. I passed underneath the power lines where two Turkey Vultures sat above with their bony shoulders hunched and their bald heads turned down.  I think they were on the lookout for anything dead.  I walked a little faster.  A rancher’s wife must know when to keep moving.

I looked down at the dirt road and noticed ants scurrying around at my feet and tracks of different animals in the red dust.  Wild pigs and javalena had also been over the road. There were wallows where they had rolled in the dirt when the spirit moved them.  Since the menacing pigs with their sharp tusks and snapping teeth were nocturnal, I didn’t plan to see them.  Nor did I want to.   A rancher’s wife must know when to keep her distance.

            Off in the thicket I heard a low, soft snorting.  I raised my binoculars and looked in the direction of the sound but couldn’t see anything beyond the prickly spines of the blackbrush. I hoped the snort came from a mother deer, warning her fawn about me. Slowly I began to appreciate the charm and ruggedness of this arid land my husband loved.  I noticed yellow Black-eyed Susans blooming along the roadside and orange Lantana growing at the base of a Prickly Pear Cactus.  The wildflowers flourished in spite of too little rain and too much sun. The Prickly Pear Cactus had flat green palms with bulbous “fruit” at the top edge that looked like fingers.  The fruit had nearly invisible needles sticking out of it.  I discovered that fact too late; I touched the tempting purple fruit.  A rancher’s wife should know better.

As I started picking the cactus needles out of my fingers I looked down at a small greenish-black insect with long orange wings, tugging a lifeless tarantula behind it.   I stood watching the insect work, not knowing whether to be awed or afraid.  I later learned that I had seen a tarantula hawk, an insect that paralyzes tarantulas and then drags them back to their nests to feed their young. I liked tarantula hawks although they looked as threatening as tarantulas. A rancher’s wife must know her friends from her enemies.

When I found my way back to camp, I sat down under the big whirling fans on the porch with a glass of ice water and a favorite novel.  There were no telephones to answer, no laundry to sort, no pressing problems to solve.   While my husband built shelves for his storage shed, I propped my feet up on a stool and leaned my head back on the chair. I closed my eyes to listen to a House Finch flitting in and out of the porch beams above and a Bobwhite quail whistling its name from the low grass.   Then I settled deeper into my chair for a mid-afternoon nap.  A rancher’s wife must know when to rest.

That evening, my husband and I drove around the ranch looking for wildlife. As the day cooled, we watched a scrawny coyote warily walk through a milo patch, a bobcat and its baby slink across the road, and several deer flick up their white tails and leap into the brush. The sun turned into a red ball in the west as it quietly sank into the landscape.   A rancher’s wife knows the beauty of the earth and the glory of the skies.

After dinner, we sat outside to enjoy the South Texas evening.  An easterly breeze rustled the leaves as we listened to the coyotes yelping to each other across the ranch and occasionally, an owl’s loud hoots in the distance.  The stars began to blink on as though candles were being lit one by one. I outlined the Big Dipper shining over my shoulder and remembered that my father had pointed out the Big Dipper and the North Star to me one night too long ago to calculate. I don’t know much more about the stars.  Maybe I will learn. I decided that I could come to love this land with its red dirt and colorful birds, its leisurely days and star-studded nights.  I do think I would enjoy being a rancher’s wife on the weekends.

Finally that night we were ready for bed; pajamas on, teeth brushed, the red dirt washed away.  Then, my husband thought of one more warning: “Check for tarantulas in the sheets before you get into bed.”  Cautiously I lifted up the sheets and peered between them.  Then I looked at my husband and smiled sweetly. “You get in first.”  A rancher’s wife must be brave, and resourceful.