by Amelia Zahm
I tug hard on nylon laces, snugging shoes to feet. Dad’s birthday. I feel the loss deeply today, not just of him, but of my mother, and my grandfather, as well. Looking around, I recall bits of the life we lived together in this house. Although the ceilings are high and the rooms spacious, my history here often sits on my chest like an elephant. I stand and stretch, stepping outside to fill my lungs and clear my head.
Summer arrived late this year. With the Fourth of July just around the corner, the grass blanketing the hills behind my home still waves with the brilliant green of spring, rolling away from the deep blue of timbered lands out north. Crane’s bill, lupine and gaillardia, normally brown and crumbled by mid-June, dot the landscape with pink, purple, and yellow. White yarrow blooms, filling the air with its pungent scent.
The steady strike of my feet on the dirt road and the rhythm of my breathing lulls the chatter of my mind and allows me to notice. Meadow foxtail and medusa head ryegrass threaten to overwhelm native bunch grass on the south facing slopes. Barbed wire droops and hangs in need of staples to anchor it back to a post. In the draw, the stock pond overflows and grass stands tall, a good omen for fall grazing.
My journey home began in stages and took nearly six years to complete. The circumstances of my parent’s health—first my mother’s heart disease and later my father’s grief and dementia—conspired to interrupt my roaming lifestyle, the years I spent wandering the West in search of some purpose, some place that felt like home. A rented room in Wenatchee, an orchard shack in Hood River, a mother-in-law apartment in Albuquerque—these fenced yards were a far cry from the 1,000 acres of dry-land range and timber that now surround me. When Mom first got sick, trips home became more frequent, and after her death my visits to check on my Dad grew longer each time. Eventually I found myself, twenty years to the month of my departure for college, moving home to the property I would soon inherit.
In 1914 my grandfather purchased his property with a dream of raising premium Hereford cattle in this growing county, and my grandmother left her family to follow this determined German man. Together they built a home, raised a family and became well-respected members of Wallowa County, Oregon.
I climb the hill each morning, letting my dogs stretch their legs as they search the rock patches and draws for rock chucks, doves, and Hungarian partridge. Across the undulating prairie, the main road moves east. Farther north, remnants of the original homestead still stand. Ancient trees drop plums and crab apples, no longer gathered for preserves and jellies. The enormous double pine, large enough 90 years ago to hold my grandma and her sister standing side by side in its crook, still shades the meadow. The house, the outhouse, the barn, bunkhouse and out-buildings are gone, some absorbed by the land, others moved on skids, pulled by teams of mules down the hill to the new valley home-site. The move brought the heart of the ranch closer to town, the main roads, and the school.
As the stories go, my Grandmother Nina initiated the move. With three school-aged daughters and a toddler to contend with, she finally put her foot down. I never met Grandma, but growing up with her four strong-minded daughters and seeing pictures of her upright posture and unwavering gaze, I can imagine how the conversation went.
“Fritz, it’s time we had a new house, closer to the school. I don’t like the girls having to ride those horses back and forth every day. The winters are too cold. There is too much snow, and in good weather they only get into mischief.”
“Well, we’ll see. We need to get the harvest in, and…”
“Well, then. [hands on her hips, brows knit.] We will just see. Fritz Weinhard, if there isn’t a house closer to that school by the beginning of the next grade, the girls and I will move to town until there is.”
They moved into the newly constructed house that fall. The big red barn followed, carefully skidded down the hill with the teams of mules used to pull wagons, plows, and combines. Grandpa then added a milking barn, new bunkhouse and a second barn. Sitting on the porch, grandma could see the one-room, red brick schoolhouse, now just a quarter mile away.
I know Grandma Nina only through pictures and stories. My cousin Judy speaks of Grandma’s generosity, her faith, and her resolve. In photos, she often wears a hat. Her eyes appear thoughtful and steady, her face calm. As she smiles, only the corners of her mouth turn up. Her presence still inhabits the big house her father, Byron Miller, built at his son-in-law’s request, the house where my mother grew up, the house where I grew up, the house I live in now. Nina died in this house, peacefully, sleeping in her chair. She had recently received joyous news. Her youngest daughter, married and childless for fifteen years, was pregnant. Nina died in September. I was born in March.
Elements of her life hover in every nook and cranny: the ironing board that drops down from the wall, the huge dumbwaiter used to bring wood from the basement to fuel the kitchen stoves—both of them, and the laundry chute, with doors on the first and second stories, emptying into the basement. The weeping birch trees she planted, now enormous, shade the yard and whisper in summer’s late afternoon breezes. Efficient, strong, intelligent, opinionated, but also witty, faithful and kind. This is how my older cousins describe her. “Grandma did so much good and worked so hard,” Linda told me. “She intimidated me a little. She set such a good example, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to live up to it.”
I look for these traits of hers in myself, but rarely find them. When I wander the hallways of her house, I confront the particles, the ghosts of my own past still lingering here: the confusion of puberty, the despair of adolescence, the panic of preparing to leave home, the fear of disappointing my parents. Turning to face them, I often feel Grandma Nina beside me, hands on her hips, encouraging me. I wonder if any of her faith or strength of character flows through my veins.
After Grandma Nina’s death, my grandfather opened his home to his youngest daughter—my mother, along with my dad and me, the only child. After 25 years in the Marine Corps and too much combat, my father had retired and, seeking solace, needed to return to Wallowa County. Placing his needs before her own, my mother left her job as a legal secretary for the JAG Corps and found a way to provide a home. The baby of the family, she struck a deal with her sisters, and we left Quantico, Virginia for the ranchlands of eastern Oregon. We arrived in the fall of my fourth year.
Being a guest of sorts in Grandpa’s house, I followed strict rules of peace and quiet. No running, no yelling and no dogs in the house. Mother and her sisters, both living on neighboring ranches, always called him Dad. My father called him Fritz or sir. My cousins, all adults at this time, called him Grandad. I’ve heard him described as a stern man, a hard man, a fair man, a prominent stockman. To me, he presented a mystery to be unraveled. An only child in the country, left to my own devices, my curiosity quickly got the best of me.
Creeping from my room, down the long hallway, I began my approach across the cool, slick linoleum. My feet, always bare, moved silently. I heard my mother in the kitchen, busy with dishes. She thinks I’m outside, so she’ll never suspect.
Rounding the corner, I peeked through the hallway door into Grandpa’s porch, where sunlight poured through southeastern facing windows, warming the room in all seasons. There he laid his long, lanky frame stretched out on the cot reserved for his afternoon naps. The sweet, pungent smell of his pipe tobacco filled my nose, stinging a little. My ears caught the gentle movement of his sleeping breath. Temptation and sunlight drew me into the room.
Perching on a nearby footstool, I began my study. Grandpa looked different without his glasses. His nose seemed longer, the angles of his face sharper. He had wrinkles. I wondered why he liked the quiet so much. He even slept quietly, hands folded on his flat belly, mouth closed, chest silently rising and falling with each breath.
And then it happened. His lashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes, causing mine to widen. I’m caught! I felt that tightening deep in the pit of my belly, that awful combination of guilt and fear. It’s too late to run. I sat, frozen.
He blinked, relieving the last of the sleep. His eyes rested on me for a moment. “Well, hello,” he whispered, his voice like gravel.
“Hello,” was my only reply. Embarrassed, I pondered my dirty toes.
The cot squeaked under his weight as he rose, swinging his legs to sit on its edge.
“Hand me those glasses there.”
Retrieving his glasses from the nearby table, I carefully placed them in his hands.
“Well, have a seat,” he said, patting the cot beside him.
I could hardly believe my good luck. Not in trouble, at least not yet, I got to sit on the cot, next to Grandpa. I heard the familiar creak as I sat. Unprepared for the buoyancy of the springs, I bounced a little. Grandpa chuckled.
I spent many afternoons on the porch with Grandpa, bouncing on that cot, sharing his recliner, listening to his stories. Wide-eyed and wiggly, I sat on his lap, his knees bony, the coarse denim of his jeans itchy on my legs. He taught me to read. (My mother swore he didn’t but I disagree.) We read my first book, Mr. Pine’s Mixed Up Signs, purchased at the local family grocery store, over and over, until letters formed words and words became sentences. Dick, Jane, Spot and Puff were no problem after that, and my lifelong love of reading began, one of the few passions shared by my mother and me.
Only recently, making a similar return myself, did I realize the struggle Mom faced in coming home. Never one for rural living, she left behind urban comforts, returning to the farmhouse of her childhood to care for her aging father. Her face lit up as she talked about living in southern California as a young bride.
“My friend Carol and I would take the top off the MG and put scarves over our hair,” she said, smiling. “We zipped down the freeway, passing everyone. We loved our commute to work.”
Now she spent her mornings quietly, carefully stirring Grandpa’s Cream-of-Wheat, washing dishes, folding laundry. With a battle-scarred husband and a precocious four-year-old, I’m sure she felt overwhelmed and disappointed. I often noticed her gazing out the window, a sigh on her lips.
Although I returned happily, I breathe my share of sighs looking out these windows. As I walk down the hill toward the house each day, I see dilapidated buildings, an overgrown garden, leaning fence lines and weed-filled pastures. I responded to the irresistible pull to come home, but this place challenges me each day, confronting me with my lack of practical ranch experience. I remove my shoes by the door, and when I turn away from the windows, I face 3,400 square feet of solid German construction, built to hold a family of six and feed a host of farmhands. Still cluttered with remnants of the generations of occupants preceding me, I am reminded that the simplicity of my childhood was not a shared reality. The silence of this huge home, although not unfamiliar, often overwhelms me.
Grandpa discovered this land through toil and sweat. He cleared every acre that could possibly produce, stacking mounds of ancient, mossy basalt to make room for plows and crops. With leather harnesses and horses and mules bred specially for the job, he broke the soil, sowed the seeds, harvested crops to feed the growing herd of several hundred cattle that would make his name. Even in winter, the work continued. Carefully crafted sleds carried logs from the northern property, cut to supply materials for the barns, outbuildings and, eventually, the “big house.” His hand touched every aspect of the enterprise.
By the time I arrived, Grandpa had retired from day-to-day operations, leaving the hard labor to his eldest daughter’s family. While he still managed the breeding, bull registry and sales, he was left with a lot of time on his hands. And who better to share that time than his curious four-year-old granddaughter, who wanted nothing more than something to do and someone with whom to do it.
The engine would roar and spurt as Grandpa started his red jeep pickup. Using both hands, I climbed through the dirt and gravel of the floorboard, up to the seat, the familiar smell of Prince Albert tobacco present, as always. As we left the driveway, I used both hands and all my might to crank my window down, allowing me to rest my cheek on the door and observe my own gaze in the rearview mirror.
Grinding slowly up the hill, the same hill where I now run my dogs each day, the August heat penetrated the cab, making the dimpled vinyl stick to my bare legs. Grasshoppers ricocheted off my arms, rising from the sun-baked grass. Grandpa eased up the road, navigating through ruts and rocks. Ancient seat springs creaked and groaned, bouncing me high enough to brush my head on the ceiling. Along the way, I listened to stories…stories of the old rock wall, built from stones that once littered the nearby farm ground; of the old granary, which had bays on both sides built to hold two draft horses and a wagon; of the orchard and the old homestead.
Occasionally the pickup rolled to a stop. Grandpa shut off the engine and set the brake. Rambling from the seat, he called me to follow. Stooping slowly, he picked a blade of grass, a flower or a thickened stem. He turned it carefully in his calloused fingers, telling me of its origin and purpose. Cracking open its seeds, he let me feel and smell and taste. I squatted next to him in the dust, focused intently, resolving to remember. Unfortunately, my young mind proved unable to hold these details, leaving me instead with a sense of the experience—the coarseness of a stem, the pungent scent of a leaf, the bitter crunch of a seed.
The best adventures were when my father came along. He and Grandpa had a cool, respectful relationship. While they didn’t always see eye to eye, they shared a love of the rolling hills and timbered draws of this country. Bumping along through the back pastures, surrounded by ponderosa pine and blue bunch grass, words were few. The purpose, after all, was not to talk, but to look. To smell. To listen. What was changing? What needed doing? What held a memory?
Lulled by heat and the rocking of the jeep, I leaned against Dad’s shoulder. He smelled of gunmetal and oil, the tools of his trade. Eventually the stillness became too much.
“Dad, I have to pee.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. I can’t wait.”
“OK. Fritz, can you stop up here? The Mouse needs to pee.”
Grumbling, Grandpa slowed the Jeep to a stop, shutting off the rumbling motor. Barefoot and bold, I hopped out, scurrying to the back of the truck to squat in the dust. Powdery and deep from weeks without rain, it covered my feet, creating a moat for the stream I left. Bouncing a few times to dry, I stood, pulling up my shorts and stretching my arms overhead. I couldn’t get back in that pickup. It was too much for my four-year-old legs to bear.
“Dad, I want to run.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t bring any shoes.”
“I’m sure. Please? Can I run?”
Grandpa wasn’t at all sure. “Now, it’s hot out there. She doesn’t have any shoes. Maybe she should just get back in.”
“No Fritz,” my Dad replied, in a rare instance of disagreement. “She can run. If the Mouse feels like running, we’ll just let her. If she gets tired, we can stop and pick her up.”
Down the road I ran, feet splatting in the dust, arms pumping, lungs filling with warm, pine-scented air. I ran and ran, unaware of the old jeep bumping along behind me, focused only on the road ahead, the feel of my body moving through space, my absolute freedom.
Occasionally, running down these roads as an adult, I experience a taste of the freedom I remember. It happens in the hills, on the roads, in the places of my childhood. I trespass now, ignoring the yellow no-trespassing signs placed by my wealthy cousins and the man they hired to patrol the property in their absence.
My Grandfather’s ranch, as I knew it then, is now gone. As with the homestead, buildings collapsed, burned and were buried. Only a portion of the largest red barn remains standing. With the industrial age, ranching and farming evolved. Tractors and combines replaced draft horses and teams of mules. Diesel replaced hay as fuel.
Chemical fertilizers and weed suppression became standard practice. Crop insurance and government subsidies helped make wheat and barley viable crops. Herds grew, and the landscape changed. Massive agri-business and factory farming made it increasingly difficult for the small rancher to succeed. The arrival and heavy marketing of premium Angus beef devastated the Hereford rancher, as markets across the country flooded with the ‘new’ beef.
The house and a small parcel of land went to my mother. Two of my aunts married ranchers who built operations of their own, and some of grandpa’s land and cattle were absorbed by these ranches. Most of Fritz’s grandchildren opted for careers in education or business, many leaving the area to raise their own families. As the reins passed to the generation of my cousins, one ranch survived, the other failed.
Families bickered and fell out, feelings hurt as land was given to those choosing to work it and raise their families here. Driven by resentment and entitlement, my eldest cousin and his wealthy son-in-law have taken advantage of every misfortune, snatching up bits and pieces of property that was willed to others, often paying a fraction of its worth to a relative in dire straits. He waited until I had placed my father in residential care to approach me.
Hoy Fred called me in Albuquerque to say he would be in town for a conference and asked to take me to dinner. Apprehensive, I agreed. My suspicions were confirmed when my Aunt Ruth, Hoy’s mother, called just prior to his visit.
“You know, Hoy has always loved the house,” she said. “He was born there.”
“I remember hearing that,” I answered, sighing.
“I know things are hard with your Dad,” she continued, causing me to bite my lip. “If you wanted to sell, I’m sure Hoy would buy it from you.”
Hoy and I were only five minutes into our dinner when he brought it up. He began with a long story about losing the Carman Ranch to his younger brothers. I remembered that he and his sisters stopped speaking to their parents when they chose to sign the ranch over to the sons who lived on the property and carried on the family business. The whining and resentment in his voice proved that, although he had reconciled with his parents, he still held firmly to that grudge. I knew he had shunned his niece Cory, even after her father was killed in a farming accident, and bullied his other brother for years.
“Caring for your Dad must be expensive,” he said, beginning his pitch.
“It is,” I agreed, taking a sip of my beer.
“Have you thought about selling the house,” he asked, raising his eyebrows in anticipation.
“No, I haven’t,” I said. “Mom left some money, so I think we’ll be ok.” He frowned.
“But you could sell the house,” he insisted. “I’d be happy to take it off your hands.” His plastic smile stretched his thin lips but didn’t reach his eyes.
“Are you thinking of leaving California?” I asked.
“Oh no,” he said. “We’d just really like to have the house. For sentimental reasons,” he added.
“Well,” I said, swallowing my anger. “I’m really not interested in selling.”
“Are you sure?” he persisted. “I mean, what are you planning to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I’m not selling it.” I didn’t add to you, but I did succeed in ending the conversation.
Hoy and his son-in-law had more success with my other cousins, and the bulk of the property, including the “Upper Place,” where the original homestead stood, exists now as a new “ranch,” surrounded by no-trespassing signs and visited once a year, during elk season, by its absentee owners.
Although not a rancher myself, I now lease this land to my ranching cousins, and range management terms pepper my vocabulary—prescriptive grazing, animal unit measure, noxious weed, species diversity. The steepness of my learning curve overwhelms me at times, but the sense of stewardship I feel, tending this land, rewards me at every turn. My cousin Cory and her husband carry on Grandpa’s ranching legacy. They took over my aunt and uncle’s ranch, and moved away from farming to focus on raising quality grass-fed beef. They use prescriptive grazing and soil improvement instead of chemicals to manage weeds and have rehabilitated dryland pastures with native species like blue bunch grass.
Watching Cory and Dave struggle and scrape, raising three small children while building their herd, marketing their product, maintaining their property, I imagine grandpa would be proud. Leasing my land, they run cattle on much of grandpa’s original range. We work together to improve and sustain our adjoining properties, but I wonder, where is my place in this picture? I am a landowner, but holding title doesn’t keep me here.
This land opens itself to hold me, if I’ll let it. Many Wallowa County kids resist that feeling, leaving as quickly as possible, running for more urban surroundings, more income, an easier way of life. Drawn back here by forces stronger than reason or logic, I’ve fallen into its open arms, surrendering my busyness to a quiet rural life I never imagined.
Running or walking through the hills, wishing for the freedom of my childhood, I realize every important, life-changing choice I’ve made happened here. Accepting a job, quitting a job, leaving a relationship, healing from heartbreak. In my greatest turmoil, I always managed to return home. It wasn’t the council of my parents or logical reasoning that led me to an answer. I found what I was seeking in the dusty clouds on the road, the whispering breeze in the grass, the screech of a Cooper’s hawk overhead. This land is my mentor, guiding me, teaching me, like my Grandpa, offering up a stem of grass to chew, a bumpy road to explore, an older, simpler, more honest experience. This August marks the seventh year since my return, the longest I’ve been in one place since I left. I consider leaving, but as I explore options, it’s as if my feet are stuck in rocky soil, held to this spot, rooted.
I believe my mother’s greatest fear was that her only daughter wouldn’t amount to anything. My greatest struggle is reconciling who I should be with who I am. I could only achieve that here, in this house, on this land. Its connection with my childhood and with my ancestors fuels my journey.
My connection to this place doesn’t stop at my property line. Fences, boundaries and ownership are not what tie me to this place. I find peace here, a sense of belonging that has long eluded me. The foundation of who I am rises from my roots, from the people and places that raised and nurtured me. Is it my grandparents who walk with me now, or were they simply transmitters for the spirit and wisdom of the land? I do know it’s a gift to find solitude and refuge in a place that holds my history.
Buildings have fallen, fence lines have changed, deeds have been transferred, but the essential quality of this land remains. I feel it in the dirt, as I dig in Grandma’s garden, striving for some semblance of the bounty she grew. I feel it in the dusty, rocky road I walk; in the rock scabs that become marshes in the spring, hosting clutches of buttercups and moss; in the blue bunch grass that dots the hillsides; in the ponderosa that whoosh and sway in the afternoon breeze. I sense the wisdom of time, of space, of silence, the wisdom of being part of something as much as it is part of me.
Amelia Zahm lives in rural Northeastern Oregon and spends her time in the mountains, valleys, and canyons of Wallowa County, either on foot or on horseback. In addition to writing, she works as an acupuncturist and yoga teacher. Her writing focuses on the connections between place, history, a discovery of self, and the ways in which a perfectly ordinary life might provide some sort of insight into the magical world we each inhabit. Her work has been published at Manifest-Station and Oregon East. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Eastern Oregon University.