by Cyn Bagley

Created on: August 24, 2007   Last Updated: July 12, 2008

Whispers in the Wind

The sun beat down on the old corral as weather-beaten logs crossed the landscape of hard-packed dirt and thirsty sagebrush. Dust kicked up by horses' hooves obscured and softened the view as cowboys roped the calves, crying out to their mothers.

George Farrow was part of the scene. Resting his boot on the lower fence rail, he glanced down at his jeans and chaps which were thread-worn from one to many round-ups. Wiping his forehead with a bandanna, he tipped his cowboy hat to the back of his head and took a deep breath.

"Yes, I know your Ma," he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a piece of chewing-tobacco and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly and spit the excess near my expensive shoes.

"Yea," he drawled. "She was a wild one."

The laconic western way of slowly pronouncing a known fact made me impatient. I was used to the faster clipped rhythms of the city where the cars, the trucks, the police sirens were a constant thrum against the backdrop of life. I didn't understand the slow movements and speech of the ranchers and cowboys, who populated this strange landscape.

"She used to barrel race right here," he continued, unaware of my growing impatience. "Yea, I knew her."

"Just a minute," I said. "Is that all?"

"I reckon," he said. And before the "but" had fallen from my mouth, he sauntered away, slapping the dust from his chaps.

"Mommy," my daughter Amy called as she ran towards me. The dust scattered with each rapid step.

Stopping, her eyes brightened as she saw a calf being roped and wrestled down.

"Mommy," she yelled this time. "Did you find Grandma? Is she here?"

"She's been here," I said. Amy turned away to watch the excitement in the corral. I remember when I was her age, watching for my mother. I had wondered if she would come home. And when I realized that she was gone, I thought she had died. I had gone into the foster care system then. Eventually, I met Dave and had Amy, my lovely child.

I wanted to give her a grandmother. Dave was a stable man, but he also didn't have any parents. We had made our own parenting mistakes. It was kind of a relief in a way. We didn't have to compare our mistakes to people we didn't know.

I took Amy's hand and we walked to the corral. Some of the older men had set up a horseshoe tournament. They threw the horseshoes at nails embedded in the ground.

"Close," yelled one.

"Didn't count," yelled the other.

Picnic tables were set up beyond them covered in red-checked gingham table cloths. The tables

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