OUR RANCHVALE WINDMILL
BY MIL, 1969
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A GRAND DECORATION ON THE LAND!
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Our old windmill at Ranchvale---
I'm thinking of you again
this morning...for I ran across
Your picture, and pictures always
Bring back memories to me,
right quick.
I know---I've already written about you
But there you were, standing so straight
and still---since you weren't turning,
Your blades showed in all their beauty!
And in silhouette you looked so impressive!
You were a grand decoration on the land...
Besides your main purpose of
Delivering water.
Your very existence as a quencher
Was a sort of symbol of
home, succor, security---a safe place...
With trees all around for shelter.
Trees always hung out around windmills!
You were born in the forties...
I watched your birth.
Just as men are made of clay,
You were fashioned from strong,
Weathered wood that had paid
It's dues through many years
Of maturity.
I was older than you, but I always
Thought of you as a friend!
You see, few "city people"
Have a clue to what it's like
For a kid to sit on a big,
Scary, orange powerhouse of
a tractor, in 95 degree heat,
All day, no wind, with dust rising
From the ground, following,
And swallowing you
As you creep along at maybe 3 mph.
But you know---I see you over there
On the corner of our section
Watching me, every round I make.
We're both stuck with our jobs
And I'm sure I feel pity...from you.
I watch you too!
The day drags on. I feel almost like
The "Ancient Mariner," lost out in
The middle of a section of land...
A sea of dirt, with no
Wind, rain, or mercy in sight.
I think of my peers, in town---
in their swim trunks
And sunshades, lying around the pool---
Flirting with the pretty girls.
Next thing you know, they'll all
be down at the Lyceum, where it's
cool, catching a movie!
I've sung all my favorite songs, out here
Over and over...'til I'm hoarse.
"Red River Valley," Moonlight Bay,"
"Auralee," "My Old Kentucky Home."
(Oh, I know today's kids wouldn't
care for my music, for it contains
An important music "requisite"----
Melody.)
There are those out here who
Love my singing...
They are the gnats, flies, and
Bugs that follow me around my
Rounds, hanging in my face,
And ever buzzing their approval!
After a few dozen "why me's?"
I have settled down to my fate
On another plow-day, doing my
Assigned acres!
It's hot out here. My water bag
Is seeping---it's muddy all over...
It's water is hot...and mostly gone.
Some big puffy white clouds have
Sailed in to my "ancient mariner"
milieu! A breeze is "getting up."
I can see my windmill over there
By the road: it's turning like mad---
Glad to have something to do!
I think windmills get bored on
hot, windless summer days
In August.
Yes! It's pumping like mad,
And yes! It is calling to me:
"Hang it up---come over
and let's have a drink.
You need to sit in the shade,
Under this old elm tree, have some
Of my water, and cool off!"
So if the clouds turn dark, and it
Starts to rain, I'll quit, drive over
To my old friend, the windmill,
Wash the mud off my water bag,
Fill it with cold fresh water,
And drink what seems like
gallons of it!
Then I'll fill my leaking, beat-up
Straw hat with more cold water,
And dump it on my face, and on
My head and shoulders
Again and again, until I'm all wet.
And cool!
My friend, the windmill, so
Glad to have wind...and company
Seems to be clunging and laughing,
Clunging and laughing...and saying
"Now we're cooking! I love
water parties---nuthin' like 'em
On a hot summer day!"
That windmill, stuck out there
In the open wheat field in plain sight
Was always visible to me, no matter
Where I was in the field.
It was a faithful sentinel, standing there
And watching me, and maybe hankering
a bit for my company.
I came back once to Ranchvale, to the
Baptist Church, one mile due west
of my mill; it was the sixties and
I came to that church of noble
people, not to sing "Red River Valley"
this time, but to sing of the
Incomparable mercy of the loving Father:
"Sinners Jesus will receive...
Sound this word of grace to all."
I was too busy I guess, that time,
To go a mile down the road, and
Say hello to my old windmill
But in 1969 I went back out there one
day, late in the day, and got a nice
silhouette photo.
I should have told my friend "goodbye"
then, but I thought we'd both live forever.
Early this year, in a note to a long-time
compadre, "Country Boy Bob,"
I said: "When you're moseying
around our dear old Clovis, could you
please drop by our old Ranchvale
place an get me a pic of my beloved
windmill.?"
Several weeks later, a note came
From Bob: "The windmill at your
Old Home Place...is gone."
How did that happen? The last time
I saw it---it was standing straight up
And strong. Dad built that mill
To last a hundred years!
I should have said my "goodbyes"
in 1969. Isn't that the way of life,
Putting things off?
I know its body was made only
Of cedar...and pine...of posts...
And four by fours...and a platform
of wood...nuts, gears, and bolts...
But there was more to my mill
Than just parts.
There was something about
That mill...it had a soul...
We jibed...
Its voice is stilled
Its "clung, clung" will be heard
No more...
As Stephen Foster said:
"When the wild flowers
Are scattered o'er the plain."
Dear old faithful, hard-working,
Unselfish, loyal friend...
Who stood there for so many
Cold winters and hot summers,
in winds that shook you...
With all your knots, cracks,
scars...and faded red paint...
I loved you.
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BY MIL
09/08/13
Sent from my iPad
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