My paternal grandparents’ ranch sold in 2018, after being in the family for nearly 34 years, and present for all but one of mine. The sale of the Ranch was a tremendous loss: it marked the end of an era, the loss of a sacred space in my life’s rhythms, the unraveling of a thread that held pieces of our family together. While I will never stop missing it, I will always be immensely grateful to have had the privilege of the time, space, and resources to experience its enchantment. I know that privately-owned, game-managed properties are fraught with their own particular controversies, and I don’t deny the complexity of their merit; but this place, for me, was much more than a place to manage land, plants, and animals: it was a little slice of prickly, dusty Heaven.
Getting to the Ranch was a ritual in itself. We would dutifully pack bags with camouflage t-shirts, “Ranch jeans” (jeans that you didn’t care about getting ripped, torn, or dirty) and cowboy boots, then carefully pick out which items to bring along for the long car ride: pillows, blankies, stuffed animals, games, snacks. We always tried to pull out of the driveway early in the morning, so we could make it to the Ranch before dinner. Breakfast consisted of eggs, bacon and grits at Hilltop Café with Grammy and PawPaw, and lunch at the original Prasek’s, the tiny gas station with displays of kolaches, and turkey sandwiches with too much meat. How many Prasek’s sugar cookies have I eaten in my lifetime? Who knows. Mom reminded me recently of all our stops on the drive to buy new boots and hats, camo shirts and jackets. There were usually two or three gas station stops for bathroom breaks and gasoline, where I picked out candy and soda, and always regretted the tummy ache I got afterwards. The last stop was always the Beeville HEB, a welcome respite to stretch our legs and pick up fresh produce and refrigerated items. When at last you could see the long stretches of cactus-lined brush country out the windows, it meant we were getting close to the gate.
Ranch gates were an important part of the trip: the original front gate had a combination lock, and the pasture gates had chain link closures. These manual fixtures required someone to hop out of the car or truck, unlock the gate, and hold it open for the vehicle to drive through, and then close and re-lock it. It was a VERY important job for a kid. From the front gate at the start of the trip to the front gate at the end of the trip, my siblings and I fought over who got to open and close them all, until we got the fancy automatic ones, which of course were much less fun. I can still feel the slight weight of the metal chain in my hand, and hear the slide-clink of it as it unhooked and re-hooked in the slot.
I loved the sound of the first crunch of the suburban tires against the rock road, and the bitter smell of South Texas dirt as it hit your nostrils. The slow roll to the Ranch house seemed interminable (even as an adult!) and my heart always leapt a little when I saw it. If we arrived at night, it was a welcome sight to see the yellow glow of its lights through the windows.
Unloading groceries and bags and other ranch stuff was a chore, and Grammy would be in the kitchen organizing and sorting things to their appropriate places in the pantry and on the countertops. She always snuck in special treats for each of us: orange slice candy, chocolate-covered cherries, cookies, pistachios, Big Red.
The house smelled of mothballs and leather, and many times chicken bouillon and rigatoni if Grammy had started cooking already. I wish I could have bottled these smells, the smells of my childhood, and my family.
It was exciting to get our overnight bags inside and find our places, to choose our rooms and our beds for the stay. When it was all inside and settled, it was time to change into Ranch clothes and boots and enter the magical world of The Ranch Trip.
We rode what must have been hundreds of thousands of miles in the trucks over the years, and I think we all have a tale of flat tires or getting stuck in the mud. It must have been frustrating for the adult in charge, but as a kid it felt exhilarating to use the radios to inform others we had broken down, to be “lost in the wilderness” and then either be rescued or have to trek back home through the dirt and brush.
The Ranch trucks were fitted with extra seats mounted on the front of the cab and on top of the truck bed. I remember rotating with my siblings and cousins as to who rode up front and who rode up top. It was always preferable to ride up front, to enjoy the invigorating sensation of wind on your face, hear the hum of the truck motor underneath you, and be the first to spot any wildlife. If you rode up top, you had to look out for thorny tree branches lest you get your eye poked out. On the front, you could have secret conversations and sing funny songs that the parents in the cab couldn’t hear.
We threw millions of pieces of cow cake and trillions of pieces of corn. I think it is the only place on earth where I’ll ever think riding around aimlessly and throwing things out of the back of a truck are such amusing activities. We rode during the day to kill the hot hours and to enjoy the scenery of the brush country, and we rode at night for the thrill of finding animals doing their nighttime activities: deer, bunnies, armadillos, bobcats, coyotes, hogs.
There were frozen bandanas and ice chests of drinks and snacks to keep us cool and happy when we were there in the summer and it was a million degrees, but by God, we were going outside anyway.
We rode horses that were always a little finicky and eager to get us off their backs and go back to their wild and peaceful existence; unless, of course, you approached the corrals with sugar cubes and carrots.
We bass fished for hours, sitting on buckets and using candy gummy worms when we ran out of bait. Mom always caught the most.
We went on walks to look for arrowheads, and Mom was always the lucky one to find them.
We shot at skeet and hay bales, sitting in the hot sun waiting our turns. I remember the last time we shot skeet with PawPaw, when he smiled his twinkly smile and hit every single clay that went up, if not on the first shot, then damned sure with the second one. Maybe he didn’t hit every single one, but I like to remember that he did.
We sat on the porch and talked and rocked and swung while eating peppered turkey jerky and drinking Sunkist.
I can still see PawPaw with his camo t-shirt tucked into his camo pants, with his camo zip-up hooded sweatshirt, with a belt and a camo hat perched a little too high on his head. I can see his house loafers and white socks. I can see him at the desk, carefully recording each deer killed.
PawPaw had to constantly remind us to take our boots off by the door, and when we forgot he diligently swept out the dirt and dust. It was, after all, his castle. It only took one time crunching a bug with your toes to remember to always check your boots before putting them back on.
I was never a hunter, but it didn’t matter. I remember the glow of the TV screen on the hunter’s faces as they watched the latest game camera videos, or whatever videos the hunters had taken, ooing and ahing over big deer and successful kills. They laughed at “the dance” and I tried to stay away and ask for the highlights from afar.
I cried when my husband Jeff shot his first deer because I felt so sad for the deer, essentially ruining his first kill. When we got back to the house and I had tears in my eyes, I remember someone asking me if I was crying because I was so happy. I laughed and said it was because I was sad. My cousin Allie hugged me and told me it was ok, and that the deer have so much adrenaline flowing when they are shot that they really don’t feel anything. It made me feel better, even if it might have been a lie. I didn’t Google it because I didn’t really want to know. But anyway, people hugged me and patted Jeff on the back and celebrated us both because well, that’s just what you did there. I went inside to have a drink while Jeff went happily to the skinning house for the bloody, beer-soaked ritual of skinning. I’m glad he got to know this place that was such a part of me.
The Ranch was the sort of place where you could go and be who you were and you still fit in just fine. You could go out searching for the perfect buck or pack of hogs to shoot, or you could sit at the table, read magazines, and chat. You could stay home and nap after the early morning hunt, or you could make a trip “into town” to go to Walmart and piddle around and pick up things we needed. You could wear lipstick with your camo (like my sister) or not shower for days (like my brother).
I, for one, loved being at the Ranch for the nature part of it. I loved walking in the dust, riding and feeding the horses, counting the baby calves, discovering strange bugs, observing the cactus flowers, listening to the coyotes howl at night, marveling at the brilliant Milky Way in the extra-dark sky. I loved watching the deer carefully step out of the brush to nibble corn, families of pigs scurrying along together, the elusive bunny rabbits and giant hares that would appear and disappear. You couldn’t spot an armadillo without being fascinated by its ugliness and reminding everyone how many diseases they carried.
My favorite thing to do was go to a far corner of the Ranch and be alone in a deer blind. Upper and Lower Sendera were my special places; I think we must have all had one. I loved sitting in the blind even though they were dirty and waspy, because it allowed me to be privy to the special, secret activity of the animals: the mundane eating of corn, the darling mamas and babies, the spectacular deer fights, a coyote that snuck across the road, the dramatic appearance of a prized buck. I loved the quiet and stillness, and most of all watching the sunset. Being in a blind made me feel a part of the hunting experience, even if my goal was different than most of the others. I loved recounting everything I had seen when I came back to the house, and I remember feeling proud when Dad or PawPaw expressed genuine interest in what I described.
At least once a trip I would go to the blind with my sister and cousin and we packed so many snacks and made so much noise that sometimes we didn’t see a damned thing and we certainly didn’t care because that wasn’t the point, and other times it seemed like we had every animal on the Ranch underneath our blind and we couldn’t believe they stuck around to eat even with all our shenanigans.
I always preferred to go out in the evenings, because vacation for me was sleeping in; but I do remember a few mornings going out with Dad. We bundled up in as many layers as possible, with thermals and extra vests or coats that were too big. We had hand warmers and hats and extra socks, but your toes and fingers would freeze stiff anyway. I remember Dad seeing stuff he wanted to shoot but that he would let them get away, just for me. I also remember one time when everyone went to look at another ranch and I stayed behind with PawPaw to fish. In retrospect, he probably wanted to be alone (ha!), but I remember it was fun and we caught a turtle. I think it is the only memory I have of just me and him, and I’m so thankful for it.
There was always a sort of magical time at the house in the evenings, when the sun began to creep down over the pond behind the house, the kitchen filled with the warm glow of lights and the beginning of dinner, and we waited to hear the “shhhhhh” of the radios, how the hunters were getting along, or if anyone would be bringing home a deer. Just when the sky would completely darken, we’d hear the crackle of the rocks and see the flashes of light sweep across the kitchen windows, and we would all put down our spoons and drinks and magazines and head outside to welcome the hunters home and celebrate. The first deer, the 50th deer, a bobcat, a doe, a cull buck, a big buck . . . it didn’t matter, you went and cheered and took pictures because at the Ranch, it was all exciting and we were all in it together.
Showers with sulphury water and tooth-brushings with bottled water never felt so nice as at the end of a long, dusty day at the Ranch. Martinis were prepared, wine was poured, and long, slow, magnificent dinners were served at the big long table, often after 9 pm. Ribs, chicken, brisket, burgers, even spaghetti felt special there, served on paper plates and eaten with real silverware. Perhaps even more than the hunts, the meals at the big table brought us together.
The Ranch house was cozy and quirky, and we loved it that way. There were always magazines from five years ago, old bottles of Vaseline lotion, and an appropriate amount of kitsch – “Don’t sit with yer spurs on.” From the small antennae TVs to the big fancy ones, we must have watched scores of Thanksgiving Day parades, football games, and Christmas movies on them. The fireplace was a welcome spot to defrost from a freezing hunt or night ride. The couches were for sleeping as much as lounging. The cork boards held photos of every single family member, Grammy made sure of that. It was fun to look at our baby selves and reminisce about each trip. Someone was always asleep in a recliner, or a sofa, or the swing outside with a hat over their faces. The saltillo tile and the coarse carpet of the porch room didn’t affect the soft comfort you felt inside those log-cabin walls. I think one of the most sacred spots in the house was where the land line telephone was mounted. It’s where PawPaw had his chair, where the coordinates to the Ranch were posted, and where our precarious connection to civilization hung on the wall. It was the spot that grounded us all, both literally and metaphorically: our patriarch’s throne, our place in the world.
Oh, the education the Ranch gave us. We learned about deer teeth and antlers, mating season and sheds, how to identify animal tracks and animal poop, and to recognize species of snakes. We learned gun safety and how to shoot. We learned the importance of good feed and a reliable Ranch hand, from Kiko and Juanita to Corby and Sanya. We learned about scary creatures like scorpions and tarantulas, to avoid tall grass where there might be snakes, and did I mention that armadillos carry lots of diseases? We learned about bass, fish eggs, and alligator gars, coyote howls and deer rubs, predators and prey. We all learned how to drive at the Ranch, around age 8. We learned how to kill wasps in the blinds and pee outside (yes, even the girls.) We learned how to pitch in at meals and clean-ups. We saddled horses and brushed them, we went to work the cows. We learned about life and death.
I think most of all, we learned how to be with each other and with ourselves. The Ranch was the gift of space and time in which to slow down, get outside, think our thoughts, and talk to one another.
I’m deeply thankful that my eldest son got to go to the Ranch, even though he won’t remember it. It was incredibly meaningful to me to bring my own little family to the Ranch, to bring my husband and our child into a space that had meant so much to me. The photos I have with Jeff and our son in his tiny camo outfits will no doubt spark tales of the Ranch in the future, and I can’t wait to tell them.
When we learned the Ranch was going up for sale, my whole family convened there one last time. That trip, though it turned out to not be my last, I said my goodbyes. Dad drove us through the property, past every hallowed spot, past every pond we fished at, many gates (now cattle guards) we had opened and shut, and most of the blinds we hunted. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Before our car pulled away from the barn that trip, I walked through the house and touched every wall, onto the porches and into the front yard and the circle drive, over to the corral and even the skinning house, and I thanked them for what they had given me. I felt like I had to.
It turned out that I was able to visit the Ranch one last time, and though mercifully I didn’t know it would be my last, I suspected it. I didn’t say goodbye again – the Ranch knew I loved it. I did have Dad bid my final farewell on his last trip out: “Say goodbye for me, one last time.” I suppose it was right that he did it for me, my blood connection to PawPaw and my fearless and gentle guide on all those Ranch trips.
I’m sure there are things I’ve forgotten that might fade in my memory because I didn’t write them down . . . oh yes, roller skating on the porch before it was a porch room, going to Spanish Mass in some tiny town on Sundays, and one enchanted four-wheeler ride where I ended up precisely on pace with a pack of the neighboring ranch’s horses that galloped alongside me down the fence-line – and I’m sure there are more – but the ones I’ve described are my favorites, and I think you get the idea.
In sum, I’m so profoundly thankful for the Ranch; for the space and time it gave me to learn about and to love nature, my family, and even myself. My memories there with my family and with my grandparents are valuable beyond measure. It was just a little log cabin in South Texas, but to me, it was magic.
I realize now that every single piece of the Ranch was an act of love: buying the land, building that little log cabin, building more cabins as our family expanded so we all had a place to stay, cutting the roads and putting those crackly rocks on them, decorating the yard and house with all those special photos and quirky kitsch, the cows and horses and beautiful deer and stocked ponds, the deer blinds with their unique and personal names, the trucks and the shooting targets and clays and shotgun shells, the meals and the special snacks, the radios and porch swings and rocking chairs, the cowboys and ranch hands to care for it, the big table to gather around, the memories I will cherish for a lifetime . . . the creation of a little slice of prickly, dusty Heaven.
