My favorite place on the ranch is the Shubert Lake. North of our house, about a half mile or more, the lake is large enough to show up on maps of the Sandhills.
It’s my favorite spot for a couple of reasons. One, it is the largest body of water within walking distance of my house. And two, it is part of the ranch that Jon and I own together. That, and it is a beautiful valley and lake.
Owning land is a new thing for me. I grew up in the town of Cozad, Nebraska—population around 4,000. The town sits just north of Interstate 80 and the Platte River, and Highway 30 runs through the middle. My parents owned a little house in town right across from the high school, and that is where I spent the major part of my life growing up.
My mom stayed at home with us until my brother started kindergarten, and then she went back to the workforce. During the school year, it didnt matter as much with my dad getting off work at three and being home after school; but summertime meant we needed supervision, and that meant every day all week long at Grandma’s house.
A little highway runs north of Cozad—it eventually gets you to Callaway. My grandparents lived along that highway, about 4 miles north of town.
As a kid, it did not matter that their house was small, or that it was somewhat untidy, or that one tiny bedroom converted to a sewing room was completely jam packed with yarn and fabric and beads and crafts. What I remember most is the expansive yard filled with gardens and trees and laundry lines. An old large wooden spool under a crabapple tree was a table for thousands of games and play-imaginings. There were mulberry bushes lining the fence under enormous cottonwoods where wood ducks and owls frequently hatched young ones. Quail hid in the line of cedar trees to the north, and a steady stream of birds visited grandma’s half dozen feeders and homemade gourd houses in her yard. She grew flowers in old kettles and porcelain tubs, and at least three large tilled vegetable garden plots every summer. A dozen cats ran around, along with a dog or two, and chickens and roosters had a yard just west of the house with a little shed to roost. A veritable heaven for an imaginative little prairie girl about eight years old.
Rainy summer days kept us indoors, but there was still plenty to do. And if we ever told Grandma we were bored, she’d pull out the Chinese checkers and castle blocks and Lincoln Logs. Curling up in the arm of her easy chair, I could often persuade her to read to me from our favorite old book about Dolly the Circus Horse.
Once in a while, I’d point a small finger at the glossy paper calendar from the local feed store that hung on the side of the refrigerator in the kitchen and displayed moon phases and fishing lore. “There’s a good fish today,” I’d tell Grandpa, who only moved from his easy chair to eat, use the bathroom, and fish. He’d squint out the window as I waited to see if the calendar agreed with Grandpa. “Too sunny,” he’d say, and return to his chair next to the end table and bowl of nuts and lemon candies.
When he determined the weather right, calendar or no, the usually sedentary man became a flurry of activity. Tackle boxes, poles, hats and boots, styrofoam buckets of worms and minnows, along with a bucket of the smelliest goop on earth, all were loaded in the back of an old black Ford pickup. My brother and I were crammed into the middle of that hard bench seat between Grandpa and Grandma, and that old engine roared to life. Maybe the pickup lived for fishing too; they drove the car everywhere else.
Fishing was okay, but I lacked the patience to sit for long hours with my pole like Grandpa. What was far more fun was exploring the lake or river or waterhole where we fished. Tiny minnows might swim among the rocks at the shore, with larger silvery fish always seeming just within reach. I would beg Grandma for the minnow net and try and catch more to fill the Styrofoam bucket. Every now and then, I’d take off my shoes and socks, wade into a shallow area, and squish my toes into the sand. There were all sorts of reptiles and amphibians and bugs to try and catch, some which Grandpa might use as bait. The grass and trees and shrubs were always of interest to me while we fished, I wanted to ask Grandma all their names. Often, I would make little collections, some to take home and show my mom and dad. Sometimes, my brother and I would give up on fishing and simply throw rocks in the water until Grandpa grumbled at us that we were scaring all the fish away.
Back at the house, any fish large enough to keep were cleaned and breaded and fried in a cast iron skillet. I know I’ve tasted better fish, but the fact that WE caught it made it the greatest tasting fish in the world. The same went for the peas we helped grow, the potatoes we dug, the corn we shucked, the strawberries we picked. Never did anything taste so delightful as the food we grew and caught and raised ourselves.
The summers spent with my grandparents in the country fishing, gardening, gathering eggs, playing in the dirt and mud, running up and down hills, playing with animals, were the most magically ordinary days of my life. I got a taste for the life I wanted—that laid-back hard work in the dirt—for the rest of my years. While a life on a cattle ranch in the Sandhills may not have been exactly what I had in mind, I can’t help but feel that same sweet satisfaction in so many aspects of this country life. When I hear the birds sing, when I plant my garden each spring, when we get done working cattle, when we drive through the hills with no people for miles, when I enjoy that homegrown beef and vegetables, and when I stand at the edge of the Shubert lake with my toes in the sand, I’m still that little girl having the most ordinary magical time.
Sandhills Prairie Girl 