On Thursday morning James packed-up the back of the truck with the big aluminum horse trough (aka the cowboy bathtub), a bunch of gear, and the young’uns for two nights at Schilling Ranch. The Ranch is just over 200 acres of oak-studded hills, happy cows, and views of half dome dusted in snow. Granddad considers it his “Flatrock of the West.”
All the boys had a blast. It was Granddad, Uncle Geoff, Devon, Bry-Bry, James, Jake and Nate. Us women folk got a steady stream of pictures and videos of Devon torturing cows with his RC truck, the boys catching bullfrogs with their homemade net, turkey hunting, and general meadow frolic. Pure joy.
Schilling Ranch is never without incident. The last time the boys went, they were pretty little. I remember they had to stay within the confines of a large circular fenced corral. Nate came home and told me “a little old man fell into the fire.” I didn’t think I was understanding him right. But, it turned out Granddad’s friend Elvin had breathed in some smoke and pitched forward right into the campfire. The details are still a bit foggy. This trip Jacob got his crocs sucked off by mud in the dark in a pond. James mistook Nate’s tears for brotherly empathy, but turns out he was mad his frog hunt was cut short.
That said, I’m told brothers stuck together the whole time. As expected, James made great ribs. They enjoyed s’mores. And our organic eggs. But the tea was lava and the first night saw hurricane force winds. I’m told the wildflowers were stunning. Jacob met the property’s caretaker, Jim. Jim pans for gold to pay for groceries, which he buys once a month. He has an old car and beautiful teeth. Jake is positive that he does not want to grow-up to be a caretaker.
Last night the boys got home. After two showers they still smelled like campfire. At some point they start telling me about the rank order of the “Yellingest Dad.” I take it this is an informal contest determining the dad that yells the most. There are four little boy judges.
James was pretty cocky having placed third.