rancherwriterpoet

Poetry, musings, reflections, life

Archive for the month “June, 2020”

Dad’s Day, 2020

June 21 is Father’s Day 2020. I am a father. I have been a father since October 1959. Age is not creeping anymore; it is fast tracking. I have three remarkable children, six wonderful grandchildren and five amazing great-grandchildren and lest I forget a delightful stepdaughter. My fatherly life is full. I am so blessed.
Frank Sinatra sang; “regrets, I’ve had a few”. Have I made mistakes, absolutely! During my lifetime, there have been ups and downs, some periods even went sideways, so, yes, one could say “regrets, I ‘ve had a few.”
Being a father is not necessarily the same as being a “dad”. The first is a biological event; the second is an emotional one. I would never regret being a “father” however, I do regret not always being a “dad”. But then, one cannot go back in time and change the past.
So, to all my family, on this Father’s Day, 2020, I will strive to be more of a “Dad.” Please know that I love all of you and am proud to be your “Dad”, your “Stepdad”,  your “Granddad”, and your “Great Grandad!” To all the Dad’s in our family, I hope this “Dad’s Day” is meaningful to you.

And from an era gone by, this about my “Dad”.

Lewis Stewart was my stepfather, entering my life at the brink of my becoming a teenager. But he was more than a stepfather. He became my “Dad”, not necessarily in name but in every other aspect. He was my “Dad”. He went to his heavenly home on June 7th, 1984. My “Pop” was and still is a loving memory for me. I pay tribute to him in this poem I wrote in 1992.

The March of Age

Silver strands of wispy hair adorn
The head of this old man,
His eyes seem tired and he grows weak,
He does the best he can.

Age has caught the life of him
Whom age could never touch.
At least not him who’s big to me,
Whose hand I reach to clutch.

The years have fast raced on to reach
This one who could not fall.
The yesterdays are now but faint,
This fate must touch us all.

When grown men cry so deep inside
That words can ne’er explain,
There’s reason for the tears we hide,
Redeeming love without refrain.

So, age will search for others now,
Not knowing what it had.
For age does not discriminate,
I know, it caught my Dad.

Pete Robertson
© 1992

Bailey Goes Home

sebastopol Geese.

Three Sebastopol Geese, goslings, arrived via U.S. Postal Service sometime in 2017. Two females and one male, and the “Rancherette” named them according to the information we received when they arrived. She named the male, “Bailey”. The larger female, she named Shia, because she was very shy. The other female was named Indie, for “her” independence. Of course, we had it all wrong. Bailey is shy and is not a male. Oops, he was indeed a male, Indie is very independent; however, she is a he. Indie rules this gaggle of geese. And Shia, well, she is not too shy, more like she is laid back. We have since added to our flock a female named Gweeny and another buff named Dusty. These are the geese on the Fuzzy Chicken Farm.

The sad news is that Bailey went “home” one last time, this past evening. He, the smaller Sebastopol gander, has flown across the rainbow bridge. I am sure there must be a place for geese when they die. Maybe, it is not a rainbow bridge or maybe it is.  If it is a Rainbow Bridge, I can just see Bailey waddling across. You see, Bailey was a pet goose. We receive a lot of joy from our geese and Bailey was no exception. Always slower and more laid back than the others, he would constantly be the one dragging up the rear on their way “home” every evening. We taught them to “go home” when we penned them up for the evening. This was an effort to protect them from predators, such as coyotes. Bailey was always the comical one. He kind of squeaked when he honked, and it was obvious who the culprit was.

Around the Fuzzy Chicken Farm, there is an abundance of animals and birds. It stings when the circle of life ends. The “Rancherette” is constantly incubating baby chicks and there is almost always some that do not make it. It stings. We occasionally lose a larger bird, it stings. It has only been 17 days since our beloved Apollo crossed the Rainbow Bridge. It still stings. As animal lovers, we always dread the day.

Bailey was a sweet bird, never aggressive, even during mating season. I can see the other geese feeling lost today, I am sure that they miss Bailey. I know I do. Go “home” Bailey, one last time.

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