Unlike the Florida piece, this is something I definitely need in the memoir. Perhaps this piece in particular isn't it, but something like this needs to be added in (probably under Family Relationships). Also, if there are more simple sentences and grammar errors than usual, that's because when I first began writing this, I was sleep deprived and worried. I had to keep an orphaned calf alive almost single-handedly, and that thing wasn't easy to take care of. Also, I figured I might put the stuff about Nebraska in a piece titled "Nebraska". I kept the stuff that happened in Nebraska before I arrived to Minnesota for context, but left out the stuff that went on when I returned to Nebraska after Minnesota. 

I came to Minnesota to do two things; visit family and actually relax for once. At home, it's just been go, go, go! I got my driver's license, and my eyes checked out, have been trying to fix my car so I won't get sick or soaked when it rains, working a lot downtown, writing, drawing, painting, and still finding some time to play video games and sleep for my downtime. The one thing that kept me going was the trip to Minnesota. I figured I could rest a lot there, so at home, I worked myself harder than a workhorse in a thunderstorm. After all, I only expected to see family occasionally, but planned to lay around the farm all day most of the time, relaxing alone on the lawn in the shade, cloud watching while listening to the birds chirp, cows bellow, and wind whispering in the trees. I brought my dirtbike as a main source of entertainment since I assumed that I'd be left to my own devices while everyone else worked. As of now (I'm leaving tomorrow), I've only ridden my dirtbike a total of 3 hours. Clearly, I've been preoccupied with other things!

My maternal grandparents, grandpa Lyle (biological grandpa) and grandma Connie (married-in grandma) took me to Minnesota this time. Before my grandpa Bob (paternal grandpa) passed away, my parents were pretty adamant about keeping my maternal family separate from my paternal family. My parents' divorce raised a lot of turmoil between them, and they felt the need to pass that turmoil down to my grandparents, aunts, and uncles, though nobody besides my parents and their partners ever fought. In fact, both sides of my family stayed in touch, always wondering what the other side was up to, but in a healthy, loving way, despite knowing about every little thing that went on between my parents. 

My parents had a lot of bitterness towards each other, and their new partners seemed to add fuel to that fire. Most of the arguments my parents had between each other were over very petty things, such as picking me up and/or dropping me off one minute too late or too early, or forgetting to send me home with one of my medications, even though both of my parents always had an endless supply of medication for me stored in the pantry and delivered to both houses weekly. A lot of gossiping went on in both houses too, especially between my stepmom and her friends, where she ripped on my mom for "not doing enough" for me within earshot of me, which understandably pissed me off. I'd often go home to my mom and vent about what my stepmom said about her. Otherwise, I never really got involved in their stupid little arguments or listened in on the gossip. I just accepted it as a part of life and did my best to stay out of everything. I only got involved in more serious issues, especially those that threatened to shorten my time spent with family.

But, since my grandpa Bob passed, my parents have been hit with a massive wake-up call. Their parents won't live forever, and whenever I beg to go to the farm, I ought to be allowed to go, regardless of how I get there, or who brings me. I'm still pretty upset that my parents didn't realize that until after I lost my grandpa Bob, with whom I was very close with, but at least I can enjoy my grandma Shirley, and the rest of the family, and the farm, whenever I want, as much as I want, so long as I have a way to get there. It was amazing to watch the hatchet get buried after so many years. For the first time in my life, I saw my parents hug it out shortly after grandpa was laid to rest in the land he loved so much. They also cut the gossiping, and have managed to have friendly, and even affectionate conversations between each other. Obviously, my parents will never ever get together again, but at least they've grown up so I don't have to be the one who tells my mom what my dad wants from her and vise versa.

Since my maternal grandparents were gracious enough to drive me to Minnesota, we figured we'd stop by my grandma Connie's sister's farm, which was right smack dab in the middle of our journey. Grandma's sister, Cindy, and her husband Greg, live near the sleepy little town of Winside, Nebraska, just a half-hour from the Iowa border. On their farm, they grow a lot of sweet corn and raise a lot of beef cattle, mainly angus. They also have a couple of dogs and an obnoxious donkey called Peanut, who protects the newborn calves and calving mothers from coyotes. It's a lot like my paternal family's farm, just a lot smaller, and not nearly as exciting. 

For pretty much all of the drive to Nebraska, I slept, or at the very least, day-dreamed as I stared out the window and listened to music. The caffeine I got from three cans of diet Mountain Dew just wasn't enough to keep my eyes open. My body forced me into a deep, dreamless sleep, even though I fought against it hard, while my grandparents drove us across hundreds of miles of flat, endless prairie. 

My grandpa woke me up when we were 30 miles away from the farm. The flat sagebrush prairie I'd fallen asleep to was replaced by rolling green croplands for as far as my eyes could see. He dangled the keys in front of my face as I stretched and rubbed the grogginess from my eyes. I'd promised to take on the last stretch of every drive. Once I stretched every muscle, cracked every bone, yawned several times, and cleared my throat, I was awake, alert, and ready to drive. 

The first 25 miles were pretty easy. There was one stoplight on the whole highway, so for the most part, I kept my foot down on the pedal and an eye out for the law. While I'm technically a licensed driver, I'm not supposed to be driving without glasses, and if I get pulled over and the cops see I'm not wearing them, I could get a pretty big ticket, or even arrested in some states. But, at that point in time, the law did not matter to me. I was hellbent to finish the day's drive. I can still see the world just fine. It's just reading road signs that gives me trouble. So, while I drove, my grandpa used landmarks instead of road names to guide me. 

When we turned onto gravel roads, I felt myself tense up as I quickly skidded to a stop. The road that lay ahead of me was nothing like anything I'd driven before. It was only wide enough for one car to drive on at a time, except it was a two-way road. There were deep grassy ditches on either side of the road, which if I were to slide off at any point, or even just pull over, gravity would've gotten the better of all of us. To top it all off, the gravel on the road was very loose, making it slippery and much harder for me to safely drive. 

Instead of putting it in park and calling it quits like I used to do when I got scared behind the wheel, I clenched my teeth, tightened my fists around the steering wheel, and gave 'er hell over the rolling hills of God's country. The wild country girl within me was awakened the moment our tires hit gravel, erasing any fear or worry I've ever had about driving. For a brief moment in time, I totally trusted myself behind the wheel! Someway, somehow, we made it to the Nebraska farm in one piece. My grandparents looked a little scared out of their minds, but expressed how proud of me they were anyway. 

At the farm, I was immediately greeted by a friendly mutt called Jet. He startled me because he basically came out of nowhere, but I relaxed knowing he was friendly. But, before I could really enjoy him, I was called over to help unpack, which included bringing in several boxes of fresh peaches for Cindy. I never got to know my grandma Connie's side of the family. I'd never been to that farm or even interacted with most of the people. I was quiet and nervous. As soon as I had the two boxes of peaches on the kitchen counter, I retreated back outside to play with Jet while I waited for more orders. 

Outside, the air was warm and fresh. Hordes of butterflies swarmed the flowers and the lawn around me. I'd never seen so many butterflies in one place before! While I was busy harassing the butterflies in an orange lily bush, Greg came out with my grandpa holding a massive dinner plate with big, juicy steaks stacked on top of it. I trailed the men to the grill with Jet by my side, and watched with a watery mouth while Greg laid the steaks on the grill. He seasoned all but one of them, because I wanted nothing more than a rare, unseasoned steak after a long day of driving. 

Around this time, the rest of the family, with their three little kids arrived. The oldest was four, and the youngest was just a few months old, and they were quite the noisy bunch. I did my best to navigate the house without running over one of the kids. For some reason, they wanted to play with me after dinner and refused to leave me alone. Now, I don't really play. I honestly don't even know how. So, I was the most boring source of entertainment those two little toddlers could ever have. Yet they were absolutely fascinated by me, more specifically, by my cowboy hat, which I was wearing. I gave them my hat to play with for a bit while I leaned back on the couch and relaxed, only to be interrupted by Cash, the family hunting dog, who also wanted attention. 

Thankfully, Greg finally rescued me from the chaos! He asked me to go with him to test out electric fences in a pasture he owned about a mile from the house. Obviously, if testing electric fences meant I'd have to touch them, I wouldn't have gone. But, I knew I'd be testing them by shocking a hammer, so I wouldn't feel anything. 

I jumped in the passenger seat of the John Deere Gator Greg had, while Jet sat in the trunk behind us. The Gator had no doors or windows of any kind. Just a steel frame surrounding us in case we rolled. As Greg turned the key in the ignition, he smiled and shouted, "You prolly wanna keep your mouth shut! There's a lot of bugs out here this time of night!" 

Greg had his foot to the floor as his little Gator drove up and over the rolling gravel road with ease. I took in deep breaths of the fresh evening air as I realized just how much I missed that side of life. I'd been pent up in the city for so long that I'd forgotten about how important the country has always been to me. I'd accepted that the city life would be the only life I'd only ever truly know, and due to my health, working with my hands on the farm was completely out of the question. Clearly, I'd been believing a lie this whole time, and there is a lot more to the country life than just working yourself into utter exhaustion every single day of your career. 

After a mile or so of driving, we pulled up to a gate, and Greg got out to unlatch it. As he did this, he put his hammer up to the fence nearby, and shocked it. Greg then held the fence in his hand and beckoned me to come hold his free hand. 

"I don't think so, Greg!" I laughed while I remained seated in the Gator, "I know enough about how electricity works to know I'll get shocked if I get near you."

Greg let go of the fence, got in the Gator, and admitted to me that he loved doing that to his students from the city. Besides being a rancher and a diesel mechanic, Greg is also a diesel mechanics professor at a nearby college, so he has plenty of newbie city kids to mess with, especially since he teaches at his shop on the farm. You'd think that anyone applying for a class on diesel mechanics would be familiar with basic physics, but the school system fails more students than it helps to succeed. Experience is the best teacher, and when you get a bunch of city kids who have no idea electric fences even exist, attending a class taught by a lifelong rancher, it's easy to trick them into getting shocked one way or another. 

Jet led the way as we drove deep into the pasture. He barked at the cattle, startling them into a stampede, while Greg and I pulled up to another fence to test. This time, I was handed the hammer, and told to put the head against the fence. It wouldn't shock me, because the rubber handle would absorb all of the electricity conducted by the metal head. So, I confidently used it to shock the fence, before returning to the Gator and heading off to test more fences. 

Once we were done testing all of the fences that needed to be tested, Greg called out for Jet, and then started up the engine as soon as Jet was seated behind us. Jet wore himself out chasing the cattle around, but was very satisfied with himself. In his mind, he was doing the most important job in the world; guarding us from a herd of 50 aggressive cattle. 

On the way back, a stupid looking black lab came bolting towards us from a neighboring farmhouse. Greg stepped on it, hoping to lose the dog in the dust. Instead, it kept up with us easily, barking and attempting to jump in with us as it sprinted over the gravel. For a minute, I thought that dog was aggressive and whipped out my pocket knife just in case, until we stopped and the dog put its snot-soaked nose against my hand. I scowled and quickly wiped my hand on my pants, while the dog trotted over to the other side of the Gator, hoping Greg would give it some attention. 

Instead, Greg put the Gator in park, got out, and proceeded to yell at the dog while pointing at the direction it came from. But, instead of going away, the dog started barking at Greg. For about five minutes, while Jet and I just sat in the Gator and watched Greg and that dog have the most entertaining argument I've ever witnessed. Not even Greg could hide his laughter over the ridiculousness of the situation, which further incentivised the dog to stay with us. Finally, Greg decided to just get in the Gator and go as fast as it could in hopes of leaving the damn dog in our dust. As soon as he started the Gator again, the dog stood in front of us and refused to get out of the way. When we drove, the dog just stayed right in front of us. Clearly, it knew Greg wouldn't run it over. It's almost as if that dog's done that sort of thing before!

Greg flipped us around and headed the other way, hoping to herd the dog back home where its owner could catch it. 

Greg's plan worked! As soon as the dog saw its owner standing on the front porch, calling its name, it abandoned us on the dirt road long enough for Greg to turn back towards home again and get out of sight before that dog had a chance to change its mind. I found out later that dog had a tendency to do that. The dog, a black lab called Maisy, loved people, especially new people. All she wanted was to get to know me, and she was gonna do everything in her power to make us stay with her. But, unfortunately for all of us, we still had things to do back on Cindy and Greg's farm, and couldn't stick around to hang out with her. 

Back at the farm, I helped Cindy thin out a couple of her apple trees. Many of the apples were just turning red, but were about half of the size as they'll turn out to be this fall. But, because there were so many of them, the apples wouldn't grow to their full potential unless about half of the apples on that tree were picked early. I've always enjoyed tart apples, so I grazed on the ones I picked off the tree while Cindy just threw hers on the ground for Jet to get. She also brought a couple handfuls of apples over to the pasture for Peanut (the donkey) to eat. 

Later that night, I sat down with Jeremy, Cindy's son, to talk about hunting while we watched hunting shows on TV. Jeremy found a career specializing in firearms and scopes for hunting, and thanks to his job, has gone on a lot of filmed hunts with famous hunters such as Steven Rinella and Jim Shockey. While Jeremy isn't famous, he's still well-known in the hunting community thanks to his filmed hunts and his knowledge on hunting gear. 

We stayed up for hours, sharing our most memorable outdoor experiences, discussing some of the most successful hunting tips and tricks we'd either heard of or discovered ourselves, complaining about shitty weather, anti-hunters, politicians, and very bad political ideas (*cough* *cough* red flag laws, gun bans, and identity politics *cough*), and commenting on what we were watching on TV, all the while trying not to get too loud and passionate because the rest of the house was asleep. We didn't even notice the clock until we glanced out the eastern facing window and realized the sky was just beginning to light up. We'd stayed up for 9 hours, until 5:00 in the morning, talking about hunting, and I had to be out on the road again at 7:30 AM!

I wished Jeremy a goodnight, and headed upstairs to my bedroom as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, there's no way in hell anyone's gonna move throughout a 150-year-old farmhouse with original wood flooring very quietly, so I just hoped everyone in the house was a heavy sleeper while I made my way to the guest room closest to the top of the stairs. The door to my room was partially closed. It was one of those antique wooden doors that creak very loudly every millimeter it moved. It was so loud, it made me physically cringe, but miraculously, I don't think I woke anyone else up. I put one of my boots against the door to keep it open so I could get some air from the AC unit, and then threw myself into bed before I could make any more ear-shattering noises at 5:00 in the morning. 

As much as I wanted to go to sleep, I couldn't. I just laid awake in the dark, with my eyes closed, but still fully aware of my surroundings. I could hear crickets and frogs chirping outside through an open window, the hum of the AC unit in the hallway, and the occasional creak and moan as the house settled and pipes rattled. At first those noises startled me, but eventually I accepted that the house was just very old and still pretty original, and calmed down. I was still very excited about hunting, especially since I planned on ordering my hunting tags in just a couple short days. Jeremy's stories really hyped me up. I was also eager to get back on the road, and mentally mapped out the rest of our journey to Minnesota over and over again in my head. At 6:30 AM, I decided I'd laid down long enough. I threw off my covers, pulled on a pair of jeans, made sure all of my bags were packed with all of my necessities, and crept downstairs as quietly as possible. 

Once downstairs, I pulled open the fridge, got myself a cold Mountain Dew and a bag of beef jerky to take my pills with. Then, I gently closed the fridge and headed outside into the misty country air.

Outside, I was greeted by Jet, who was all gross and muddy from playing around in the dewy grass and then rolling around in the cow yard. He jumped up and put his muddy paws on my shoulders. If I'd been in a worse mood, I would've shoved him off of me. But instead, I let him stay where he was, and made an effort to pet him, while avoiding rubbing my hand in the blotches of mud and cow shit that drenched Jet's silky coat. Thankfully, he didn't have a whole lot of mud on him, but there was still enough to make me mindful of where I pet him. 

When I stopped petting Jet, he eagerly ran around me, barking and pressing himself against me as if he wanted to show me something. I followed him to wherever he wanted me to go, but stopped at a gate which he slipped under. I looked up and locked eyes with a gentle black angus bull, who was on his way to the hay feeder. He was alone, and had left his herd of cows in the pasture. Jet mischievously approached the bull, while I called out to him, "I wouldn't do that if I were you!". Jet paused, and looked at me, then gazed over at the bull, locked eyes with me again, then stared at the bull. Meanwhile, I gently talked to the dog, coaxing him, but not very sternly, to come back to me and leave the bull alone. He knew better, and after looking between me and the bull a few more times, Jet finally crawled back under the gate to safety. 

With Jet by my side, I wandered back to the farmhouse, taking in all of my surroundings. I'd been separated from those surroundings for way too long. At home, I struggled to breathe in the polluted air. I felt anxious and trapped by all of the traffic and tall buildings. Even in the suburbs on the western outskirts of town, I've always felt confined. There's just too many people, too many buildings, too much cement, and too much light at night, and not enough wide open spaces or wildlife. While I've frequently sought some true peace and quiet at Clarke's house, within a year's time, even that will be taken away from me thanks to a new development that's 1,500 houses large.

Out in the true country, where I was at that moment with Jet, I can breathe and relax. I don't feel nearly as alone out on the farm as I do back at home, because out in the country, I actually connect with people on a much deeper level than I do with those who have spent their whole lives in the city. With the Internet, I don't struggle to talk with farmers and ranchers about more complex things. Sure, that may have been an issue 20 or 30 years ago, when the Internet wasn't popular. But today, country people are usually just as educated as city people. They're just easier to talk to than city people. They're friendlier, more gentle, less arrogant, and more understanding than those who live in the city, at least in my experience. 

My grandma Connie's family was a lot more understanding and accepting towards me and my health issues than my maternal relatives in Seattle, whom I was intentionally avoiding by scheduling a road trip to Minnesota during the exact same week my mom scheduled a trip to Washington.

My maternal relatives in Seattle mean well, but they don't treat me with the dignity and trustworthiness I deserve. They command me to do things, rather than ask. They try to force me to do things, rather than stepping back and allowing me to do things in my own time and ways. They seem to believe they know more about me than I know about me, because they think that elders always know better, and a few hours of research on Google scholarly pages is the same as living with CF for 18 years. They try to force me to be more social, more willing to do things, more willing to put myself out there, because they see my very introverted nature as a disorder that must be forcefully fixed, rather than just another personality trait. The family in Seattle seems to be too arrogant to ask me any serious questions, which is why I've pushed so far away from them. It's not that I don't love them. Of course I do! I just can't deal with being pushed, shoved, forced, belittled, and helicoptered like I often am out there.

I have to be free. 

I feared that my grandma Connie's family would be the same way, especially since they are so unfamiliar with Cystic Fibrosis and so fussy about rules. Instead, Cindy and Greg were both very understanding and accommodating. Cindy originally planned a casserole dinner for us, but when my grandma Connie informed her of my digestive issues, she instead served us a dinner of steaks, peas, broccoli, sweet corn, and cheesy mashed potatoes, all on separate serving plates, so I could be included in the family dinner without having to worry about getting sick. When discussing my condition with her, Cindy did not press me for details or claim that "because X worked for me, X must work for you". Nobody questioned me when I excused myself from dinner early, so I could escape the chaos in the house and reset myself for a few minutes, before returning to finish my meal. Everything I did on that farm was my own choice. I was not pressured or forced to do anything, or belittled and interrogated when I chose to do something. I was allowed to take care of myself, and was listened to when I spoke up for my needs.

If only I got a fraction of that same treatment in Washington. 

My thoughts scattered when Jet suddenly sprang up and barked towards the driveway to my right. There, zipping across the driveway was a wiry grey squirrel, and Jet was determined to catch it. Jet was just a second too late. He nearly snatched the squirrel as it skittered up a tree, but he was just too slow. Jet was left on the ground, barking and scratching up the century old oak tree, while the squirrel moved onto a branch and stared back down at Jet, as if to mock him. I heard the front door of the house squeak open, and Cindy called out to Jet while she shook a steel bowl of dog food for him. Behind her, I could see my grandparents getting their things together.

Within a few minutes, we'd be on the road again, headed east towards the Nibbe family farm in the bluffs of southeastern Minnesota. It 7 hours or so, I'd be approaching the front door of my grandma Shirley's house; the same house that's been in the family for almost 80 years. Then, I'd get to stay there for five nights surrounded by family and old friends. I could finally relax completely, and wouldn't have to think about anything that was bothering me in life. My life constantly changes, but the Nibbe family farm rarely changes. 

I made sure my dirtbike was still securely strapped down to its rack. I tightened a couple of ratchet tie-downs that felt too loose, and shook the dirtbike a few times to make sure every movement it made was mirrored by the rack. Then, I reached into the trunk of the SUV and pulled out a can of room-temperature Mountain Dew, which I didn't mind the taste or temperature of. I knew I'd need that extra dose of caffeine to make it through the day. Then, I turned around and let Jet jump up on me one last time as I stroked his muddy fur, before embarking on the other half of our journey to Minnesota.

This time in the car, I was a lot more alert and excited. I didn't feel very tired. I knew I'd eventually crash, but at that point in time, I was wide awake and ready to take on the day. Every time we stopped, I made sure we'd get on the road again as quickly as possible, while also taking the time to buy more beef jerky to snack on. The further east we headed, the more bluffs and hills we encountered. About 80 miles away from the farm, we stopped at a rest stop, and I took over driving for the rest of the trip. 

While my grandparents used the restroom and slowly wandered around the rest stop park, I sat in the driver's seat and struggled with figuring out the Bluetooth speaker. I figured, wrongly, that if it was simple enough for my grandparents to figure out with directions, I could figure it out just fine without directions. After all, I grew up with the internet and wireless technology, and they didn't encounter that stuff until they were in their 50's. But after several minutes of pressing random buttons and trying to get it to connect to my phone, I finally gave in and Googled how to connect my phone to that Bluetooth speaker so I could torture my grandparents with whatever Joe Rogan podcast episode I wanted. 

When I finally had the speaker figured out, I sat back and listened to the beginning of a Joe Rogan podcast where he was talking with a physicist about stuff I could barely comprehend in my "let's-get-up-and-go" kind of mindset. I had one thing on my mind, and that was to get to the farm as quickly as possible without getting pulled over by the cops. I knew they were on the lookout for speeders, and used the GPS on my phone to let me know every time there was a speed trap up ahead, just so I could slow down to the speed limit for a mile before giving 'er hell again. 

My grandpa was too invested in listening to my Joe Rogan podcast and letting me know what he thought about it to really notice I was speeding as much as I was. I was just too focused on driving to pay attention to what Joe Rogan, or my grandpa, had to say. 

After driving for about an hour, I ran into traffic in Rochester, Minnesota, so I was forced to pump the brakes. As much as I was chomping at the bit, I knew as soon as I got past the traffic on I-90 and merged onto highway 63, I would only be 25 minutes away from the farm. But, while I sat in traffic, I felt myself getting anxious again. Rochester is not a big city, but it's still a city, and it gets a lot of outsider traffic due to the Mayo Clinic. While I was in the middle of Rochester, it felt like I was dealing with drivers from back home. I almost lost my dirtbike to the tailgaters and people who didn't use their blinkers or their eyes before screeching into my lane. Somehow, I managed to weave and dodge and subtly flip people off, all the while my grandparents remained blissfully unaware of what I was dealing with. I gunned it as soon as I saw the exit to highway 63, and escaped the busy interstate to freedom!

The rest of the drive was easy and relaxing. I knew the territory like the back of my hand and felt right at home. All of my anxieties about driving were left behind in the chaos on I-90. Highway 63 took me deeper and deeper into the wooded bluffs, away from the city streets of Rochester. While I wasn't very far from Rochester, the hills and the trees provided a barrier between the farmland and the city, so I felt a lot more isolated than I really was. Since there was a wide open road ahead of me with no cops in sight, I ignored the 65 mile-per-hour speed limit and drove over 70 miles per hour, which was about as fast as the SUV could go. 

I only slowed down when the road turned into a little town called Zumbro Falls, and took the time I spent sitting at the only stoplight to shut up the GPS. I only needed it to keep me from second-guessing myself while I drove on the less familiar roads between Rochester and Zumbro Falls. 

After several more miles of driving, I flicked on my blinker and slowed down in the right-turn lane. I didn't speed on that road because there was a tractor ahead of me, but I wasn't so anxious to get to my destination anymore. Just over a hill of soybeans, underneath a clear afternoon sky, was the white Lutheran church my grandparents were married at, and where my grandpa was buried at in 2018. A wave of heartache washed over me as I slowly passed by that church. The pain I felt when I initially got that dreadful phone call has not, and will not go away. I've just learned how to live with the grief, like I've learned to live with a lot of painful things in my life. I knew going back to Minnesota after my grandpa passed away would not be easy, but my faith in God, and in the afterlife, assured me that my grandpa was in a better place. And when my time came, we'd be reunited in heaven. Our separation, while painful as all hell, would not be permanent. 

The tractor ahead of me put its break lights on, so I pulled myself back into the present and flicked my left-turn blinker on, while the tractor took a right. The asphalt road ended, and I found myself on loose gravel again, only this time, I was much more comfortable. The road was wide enough so I didn't have to worry about pulling over if another vehicle was coming towards me, and it was straight enough so I could drive faster without worrying about sliding off the road around sharp bends. 

Only, I decided not to speed down those dirt roads so quickly. Instead, I turned down the podcast and began pointing things out to my grandparents as we drove by them. I pointed out each plot of land my family owned, as well as named all of the neighbors I remembered as we drove by their farms, and highlighted some of the history of the land that surrounded us. I slowed down as the road T-ed off, and turned right, then took a final right a few hundred yards later into my grandma's driveway. Her lawn and garden were beautifully well kept. When grandpa Bob was still around, he was the one who mowed the lawn while grandma trimmed the rose bushes and pulled out the weeds. But, since grandpa passed, grandma's kept herself busy and active by riding around in the mower like grandpa did, as well as continuing to take care of her garden. 

Grandma Shirley has always been a super active woman. When grandpa had a brain aneurysm 37 years ago, she became his sole caretaker. They refused any outside help, fearing that if they accepted any kind of outside help, such as nurses or even just friends, family life would fall apart, and my grandpa's health would deteriorate much quicker. But, that meant my grandma would have to take on a lot of responsibility on her own.

My dad was only 5 years old when grandpa had his stroke, and his brothers were only 4 and 8 years older than him, which meant grandma not only had to take care of grandpa full-time when he wasn't driving a tractor, but she still had to care for her children, as well as maintain a clean house, and manage bills, doctors appointments, and so much more, all on her own. And she did so very successfully without complaint. 

She loved taking care of grandpa, and ensuring all of her children were successful in life as well. She always tells me, whenever she reminisces on her life in the past, that she was the richest woman in the world. Sure, it didn't pay her anything. But, she couldn't have been happier staying by my grandpa's side, whether it was at home on the farm, or traveling all over the country. 

When grandpa Bob passed away, I was terrified that my grandma Shirley would also quickly deteriorate. I was worried she'd get depressed, slow down to the point of being inactive, and would soon lose her independence and her charm. I didn't just sob for grandpa at his funeral, but I also sobbed for grandma, fearing that even more terrible things were on the horizon. But, grandma proved me very wrong. Instead of slowing down, she sped up in some ways, becoming much more active outside of home, while also maintaining a pretty rigid routine at home. She has used her time once taken up by grandpa to do other things, such as visit with friends in town, and spend more time with family. 

She has reassured me that she'll never slow down until the day she has to, so I shouldn't worry so much about her. However, that reassurance has done nothing to lessen the sting of death. When I walked into the old farmhouse for the first time, over a year after grandpa's funeral, I still sensed a great feeling of emptiness, and wiped away a few tears. My grandpa had basically spent his entire life in that house. He grew up in that house when was between the ages of 2 and 18. He only moved away temporarily when he and my grandma got married and had their first kids. But, his aging parents needed help running the farm, so my grandparents moved back into that house, where they've pretty much been ever since. They either were there, or at an old brick house, but both plots of land are still a part of the Nibbe family farm, and will likely be for generations.

When grandpa Bob was still alive, the house was much more alive. He loved listening to the radio, reading and then ranting about the paper, often using his dry, witty humor to roast politicians and creatively complain about local stupidity, and roasting contestants in his favorite game shows. While I couldn't care less about whatever old person TV show he was watching, I always made sure to park it on the couch while he had the TV going just so I could listen in on his wit. Grandpa may have had a very hard time talking, due to his stroke killing off his motor skills, but his intelligence was left unscathed. 

Unfortunately, due to his disability, people often mistook his slurred speech and delayed motor skills as signs his intelligence was also impacted by his stroke. Fortunately, grandma was always there to defend him. Grandma Shirley is the kindest woman I know, but when she gets pissed, she really rips into people. People never failed to change their behavior towards grandpa after grandma had a word with them. Sure, they probably didn't understand a thing that came out of grandpa's mouth, but out of fear, they damn sure did their best!

Back on the farm, I helped my maternal grandparents unload everything while grandma Shirley joined us outside. She hadn't seen my maternal grandparents in over a decade, and she never had any harsh feelings towards them. My parents' divorce didn't change my grandparents' opinions towards each other at all. My grandma Shirley couldn't thank my maternal grandparents enough for driving me so far to her farm. And, in return, my maternal grandparents couldn't thank grandma Shirley enough for inviting them to her farm. 

But, I have to admit, when grandma Shirley sighed, "Well, if only Bob was here!", I struggled to swallow the lump that formed in my throat. I had to remove myself from the conversation for a few minutes to collect myself while my grandparents caught up. 

When I came back, grandpa Lyle had somehow convinced my grandma Shirley to swing a golf club. Grandma Shirley had never done that before, and kept on repeating over and over again, "I'll never hit the ball!"

Well, despite that, she did in fact hit the ball, and it traveled a pretty good distance too! Not bad for an 80-year-old woman who's never held a golf club in her life until that moment.

Once my maternal grandparents left for their rented golf course condo in Wabasha, I was finally able to lay down and relax after a long day of traveling. Outside, towards the west, a line of heavy thunderstorms were approaching the house. Normally, I'd get anxious, but I felt safe in that old farmhouse. It'd been hit by some pretty nasty storms in the past, but has remained standing through all of them. The only thing that weighed on my mind was the news, which warned that while tornado watches and warnings were in effect for our area (as well as many others), the emergency alert systems weren't working. So, there was no point in cracking open a window to listen for the sirens in nearby Oak Center, or charging my phone so it could receive warnings, because they would never go off anyway. 

Outside, grey-green clouds rolled in behind an impressive shelf cloud. As soon as that shelf cloud rolled over us, the signal on the TV was knocked out, and it was raining so hard that I couldn't see the road across the lawn. I only got a little nervous when I noticed just how much the trees were bending. They were huge oak trees that were well over 100 years old. If one of those branches broke and fell on the house, it would put a decent dent in the roof. 

In the kitchen, grandma was busy making dinner for both of us, while I stood by the window in the den and watched the weather come in. Since grandpa died, grandma hasn't cooked a lot of large meals. In fact, she admitted that she ate mostly cereal, sandwiches, and salad, because she didn't have the time, or the reason, to cook huge meals everyday anymore like grandpa loved. But, with me there, grandma could fall back into her original routine for a week, which was something she longed for. 

I ended up wolfing down my meal almost before grandma had a chance to sit down to eat hers. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I took the first bite of chicken she'd baked for both of us. Grandma was prepared for my appetite. She called me a few days before I arrived to make a grocery list full of things I'd eat. Also, my uncle Wes had recently butchered a few of his roosters for grandma. So she wasn't worried as she watched me wolf down more than half of a baked chicken and a pint of coleslaw she prepared for dinner that night. 

As I sat in a massive food coma, I figured I'd sleep like a rock that night. Unfortunately, once grandma went to bed and I was left alone in the living room with only one dim lamp and the TV to illuminate the house, I knew it was gonna be a rough night. As much as I love that house and that farm, it gets really creepy once the lights are off and everyone's gone to bed. I don't think any of my cousins have slept there alone like I have. My dad and his siblings left as soon as they could because they always felt something was wrong in that house. Dad even called me that night to make sure I arrived on the farm safely, and when I told him I'd be spending the next several nights alone in the den, he smirked and wished me goodnight with something along the lines of, "Well, goodnight! Sleep tight! Don't let the girl from The Ring get you tonight!"

I laughed it off, but as soon as I hung up the phone and sat down on the couch, the hairs on my arms raised up as I thought about what my dad said. As much as I like to investigate and come up with natural explanations for strange, unexplained occurrences, as a Christian, I've had to acknowledge that there is a supernatural world. And, since God exists, there must be a devil too, right?

There was no way in hell I was gonna investigate any strange noise or shadows I'd pick up on throughout the course of each night. I've already been too much of a wuss to go upstairs by myself during the day, and I'm not ashamed to admit that. Not even grandma Shirley, the toughest, bravest, no nonsense woman I've ever known, was ever brave enough to go down into the basement by herself. She was even apprehensive of going upstairs by herself, especially at night, because she admitted both floors looked like a set for a horror movie.

I decided to just shake those thoughts out of my head the best I could, and then roll over to face the TV. I flipped through the channels until I found the History channel, where reruns of Pawn Stars were being broadcast. Every now and then, I'd get startled by an unidentified noise or something moving around in my peripheral vision. Of course, nobody else except me was around, and grandma was fast asleep in her bedroom next door to the den. I somehow convinced myself I was just hallucinating due to being so tired, and eventually fell asleep. 

I woke up early the next morning to apply for hunting tags. I knew it would be a busy day for purchasing hunting tags, but I went to Minnesota prepared. I had all of the information I needed at the ready, so once I got into the Colorado Parks and Wildlife system, I could order my elk tag before anyone else had the chance to snag it. I had my laptop set up on the kitchen table, tethered to my phone's cellular data, and logged in on the CPW website long before tags became available. As soon as they did, I got into the online queue and waited.

20 minutes of waiting later, I finally got into the system and plugged in all of my information as quickly and accurately as possible. When it finally came time to entering my hunt code, I put it in as quickly as possible and clicked "continue". Unfortunately, I was too late. All 6 elk cow hunting tags for my hunt code were long gone. I wasn't overly disappointed, but I was still bummed out. Elk hunting is viciously competitive in Colorado, and as more and more people become hunters, more and more people want to get themselves a Colorado elk. It's like a rite of passage. Every avid hunter must harvest a Colorado elk before they can call themselves an avid hunter. 

I decided to call my great uncle Courtney to see if he or any of his family members had any luck. He also failed to draw any tags. His son, Sean, and his grandson, Nathan, also got nothing. In fact, uncle Courtney was looking at a live data base of all 50,000 elk tags in Colorado, and within 20 minutes, less than 20,000 remained. Within 30 minutes, nearly every elk tag in the state of Colorado was purchased. Knowing this, I didn't feel so bad about missing out. I knew my uncle Courtney still had plenty of wild game in his freezer I could come by and raid whenever I wanted, so long as I left the backstraps alone. Backstraps are as valuable to hunters as gold is to gold miners.

I closed my laptop and got ready for the rest of the day. A couple cold fronts slid in the night before, so it was a beautiful 70 degrees outside. Grandma noticed my helmet and dirtbike, and asked when I planned on going for a ride. I shrugged and told her I did not know. I was going to ask someone for a tool box and a can of WD-40 so I could clean out my dirtbike's carburetor. I hadn't ridden it in months, because the last time I rode it, the throttle got stuck as I hit the powerband in 5th gear over a hill.

By some miracle, I didn't crash. I actually still had enough control over myself to pull in the clutch with one hand, press on the rear brake with my foot, and hold down the kill button with my thumb on my throttle hand, all the while charging over the hill on a country road at nearly 70 miles per hour. After that, I was successfully scared out of riding until I knew everything was lubricated and squeaky clean. Throttles don't just get stuck like that unless they're dirty. And, since the throttle cable on my dirtbike stops inside the carburetor, I knew that's where it must need some maintenance. 

Grandma told me I should call my cousin Troy, as he's the main mechanic of the family who was around most of the time. Unfortunately, I didn't have his number. He was also at work, and I didn't want to bother him once I found his number in one of my grandma's many handwritten phone books. So, grandma told me he would come by after work to check on his cattle, and I could ask him for help then. In the meantime, I wandered outside to scope out the farm for riding spots. 

I headed east first, towards the start of a path that headed north towards the family pond. I hoped that path had been used enough for me to ride it, but the grass always takes over it quickly. As expected, the path was already overgrown with grass and stinging nettle plants that stood up to my neck in some places. I could just visualize myself crashing in the nettles, which would be much worse than crashing into a cluster of cacti. At least cactus needles are easy to get out compared to nettle needles, which cannot be picked out and will only come out on their own. 

So, I turned around and headed towards the western side of the farm, where there was a path leading to a recently harvested pea field. There, I had roughly 50 acres of barren dirt to ride my dirtbike on. While it wasn't very smooth, it still looked pretty easy to ride. I could rip around on that field all day and not have to worry about my dirtbike slipping out from under me on slick gravel roads or ruining grandma's perfect lawn. However, the carburetor still needed to be cleaned before I could safely ride it. 

Later that afternoon, a rusty old pickup skidded onto grandma's driveway, outlaw country blasting from its state-of-the-art stereo system. I stepped out onto the front porch as the truck sped into the gravel lot near the steer yard, and waited for the truck to come to a complete stop before I dared to step onto the gravel. I knocked on the tailgate of the truck once I approached it, and my cousin Troy stepped out of the cab with a smile. 

"Sup, cuz!" I called out as we bumped fists. 

"Nothin' much!" Troy replied, "Grandma called earlier. She said you were having trouble with your dirtbike?"

"Yeah, kinda." I shrugged as we walked towards the steer yard, "She just needs a carb clean, but I don't have the tools to clean it up."

"Ah, that's an easy fix." Troy smiled as he approached the gate and put his hands on it, "I can get it done in 15 minutes flat!"

I watched as Troy clambered over the flimsy gate, which was held up by a couple of large posts on either side of it, tied to the post with a bunch of twine and duct tape.

"What the hell happened here?" I asked as I also climbed over the gate, nearly losing my balance as I swung my leg over the top. 

"Andrew (my cousin and Troy's second-to-youngest brother) rammed into it with the feeder. Go figure." Troy smirked. 

"I'm not surprised." I shook my head. 

Troy led me over to the middle of the steer yard where there was a hay feeder full of hay. He also checked the water trough to make sure there was still water circulating through it. Finally, he made sure all six steers were accounted for, which bolted around wildly to stay as far away from us as possible. I made sure to keep Troy between myself and the steers, because I didn't want to get trampled, not that Troy would be much protection against a charging 1,000 pound steer. I'd seen him almost get tramped before by a Charolais bull he was trying to tame for the state fair. Turns out, being in a round pen with a 1,500 pound wild animal is never a good idea, and Troy barely escaped unscathed when the bull got sick of being pulled around and charged him.

Troy noticed me hiding behind him and chuckled, "Yeah, my steers are crazy. As long as you don't run up to them, you'll be fine."

Since Troy was done making sure his crazy steers had food and water, I followed him out of the pen to safety. Troy and I had a long conversation about what we were both up to in life. I'd been a long time since we really got to talk. While Troy has been a successful diesel mechanic and farmer for years, I excitedly told him about my memoir, and he expressed interest in reading it. 

"I don't usually have time to read too many books." Troy admitted, "But, hey, maybe yours will get me back into reading things beyond articles and manuals about my job!"

As the sun sat just above the western horizon, my conversation with Troy was cut short by a startling car horn behind us. It was my aunt Stacy, who was over for dinner. 

"Well, it's getting pretty late. I better head home and get myself some dinner. I'll be back later to fix your bike! Good talking to ya!" Troy shouted over his shoulder as I headed over to greet my aunt Stacy. 

"Sounds good!" I shouted back. 

Later that night, while I visited with my uncle Wes and his family, Troy sped back to grandma's with a truck full of tools and WD-40. He took my dirtbike apart, sprayed down the carburetor with WD-40 until it was shining like new, then put the whole thing back together, all within 15 minutes. I only knew he was there when he sent me a text as soon as he was finished, and I only caught a glimpse of his truck as I rushed back to the farm with my aunt Stacey. 

I was very excited and incredibly thankful that my dirtbike would run like new again. I felt like I owed my cousin, but didn't know how. I knew he wouldn't accept cash. What he did for me was just a favor that was easy for him to do. But I still felt like I needed to give him something in return.  

Early the next morning, my grandma picked up my younger cousins Kael and Jacob from uncle Wes's up the road. They wanted to see me, and always visited grandma for an early lunch while their parents worked during the day. Kael was 13, and Jacob was 10. Both boys were great to be around. They had great manners and awesome senses of humor. They were also very trustworthy.

Unlike many of my maternal cousins, these kids weren't helicopter parented. My uncle Wes pounded the virtue of responsibility in both boys by having them work around the farm and do things under supervision most parents wouldn't even dream of letting their kids doing. 

A week before I arrived at the farm, a storm blew through that snapped a massive tree branch off of one of the oldest oak trees on the farm. Had it been just a few feet longer, that branch would've put a good dent in the roof. Luckily, it didn't take out more than the dinner bell by the front porch. 

My grandma Shirley called my uncle Wes immediately after she discovered it, and he arrived in his pickup truck with a chainsaw and his kids. Wes demonstrated how to properly use the chainsaw, and then let both of his kids try it out, of course under close supervision. Both boys apparently used the chainsaw perfectly, even though it was probably about half their size. Then, Wes and his boys wrapped the logs up in chains, and pulled them out of the driveway and into the farm yard. Since winter was months away, Wes decided to just leave the giant cut branch at grandma's until the first snow. Then, he'll cut the branch even more into fireplace-sized logs to heat his basement with. Until then, according to grandma, it'll just remain a giant eyesore in the yard. 

I spent more time eating lunch than Kael and Jacob did. So they ran around outside while I stuffed my face with the rest of my roast beef sandwich from Subway. All of the sudden, just as I was finished with the last bite, Jacob burst through the front door shouting, "There's a dead calf in the yard! There's a dead calf in the yard!"

"What?!" I yelled. 

"There's a dead calf outside! It's by the shed!" Jacob repeated himself. 

"Alright! I'll go out there! Tell grandma!" I instructed him while I got up from the table and rushed outside to see what Jacob was so frantic about. 

Outside by the pole shed, I saw Kael pacing up and down the fence, staring into the cattle yard just outside the pole shed. 

"You're brother told me there's a dead calf?!" I called to Kael. 

"Yeah. It's right there." Kael pointed. 

Sure enough, sprawled out in the sun was a little black calf. I stared at it for a moment. I couldn't tell if it was breathing or not. It was too far away. 

In the shade of the pole shed, I spotted mama cow. She had very clearly just given birth to a calf. In fact, she was eating the placenta which I assumed she pulled off the calf that laid still in the hot sun. Perhaps if she stuck around long enough to clean the little thing, maybe she fed it too and just "hid" it out there. But, something was very off. I knew cows often leave their calves to sleep after giving birth, but normally mama cows leave their calves actually hidden somewhere, like by a bush or under a trough. That calf was just laying in the middle of the yard, completely exposed and sprawled out rather than curled into a tight little ball.  

I decided to shoot Troy a few texts. After all, these were his cattle. He ought to know right away whenever one of his cows gave birth, especially since it was so late in the year. Most cows give birth in April and May. This was an August calf. But, just as I was preparing to send him a text, Kael squealed with excitement as the little calf started to stir. 

"It's alive! It's actually alive!" Kael shouted as he jumped up and down, just as Jacob was sprinting ahead of grandma towards us. 

"Son of a bitch, it is." I mumbled under my breath. 

The little guy reacted to Kael's voice and perked its little ears up at us. It seemed aware and healthy. I still sent Troy a text though, announcing that he had a new little calf. I also mentioned that something didn't seem right. Mama cow wasn't as attentive as I thought she should've been.

"Oh yeah, mom cows do that sometimes." Troy replied in a text back to me, "Don't go into the pen at first. Just because she isn't near it doesn't mean she isn't watching. Mom will be protective for a few hours. Hopefully the calf gets up and starts eating. If it hasn't gotten up yet, chances are it hasn't been fed. Just keep an eye out for it. I'll get there as soon as I finish work."

In the meantime, I decided I'd get my dirtbike running. There wasn't anything I could do for that calf. As much as I wanted to go over there and carry it into the shade, I knew mama was watching me. Like Troy said, if I tried getting anywhere near her calf, mama cow was probably gonna throw my ass a good 10 feet into the air and trample me down for good measure. So, I told the boys what Troy told me, and they nodded in agreement. 

But, before any of us could head back to the house, we watched as the little calf struggled to stand. It managed to get its back legs off the ground, but it couldn't unfold its front legs to stand up. It was shaking as it tried. After a few minutes, it appeared to give up. Instead, it was just changing strategies. Instead of getting up ass first, why not try getting up head first? Maybe it just needed to get its little front legs unfolded before it could carry the weight of its back legs as well.

Clearly, that little calf was giving it all it had, but he just couldn't stand. We watched it for a few minutes as it tried to stand up using every strategy it could think of. It even called for its mom with a pitiful, gurgly moo, but she didn't respond. Neither did any of the other cows that were nearby in the shed. They didn't seem to even notice the little guy, because they were paying attention to something going on in the shed. I got curious, and while grandma led the boys back to the farmhouse, I walked into the pole shed by the straw bales to try and see what the other cows were so interested in. 

At first, I couldn't see anything. There were just too many cows. I rattled the gate to make a little noise, spooking the cows nearest to me away so I could see what they were so interested in. There, laying in the middle of the pole shed was a second calf that had just been born. Mama was eating the placenta off it so it could breathe. It was the same cow who gave birth to the calf outside. 

She was a very large cow. Even when she wasn't pregnant, she stood taller and wider than all of the other cows. In fact, she was so big even after giving birth to twins, I wondered if she was pregnant with a third calf. She still had parts of a placenta hanging out of her behind. That isn't very rare. However, it could mean she still had another calf that she had yet to give birth to. Her back was also rounded, which to me, meant she was still pushing. Instead of getting on my dirtbike, I sat down on a straw bale and texted Troy some more, letting him know mama cow just had another calf and still looked like she might have a third one on the way. 

He couldn't believe it. So, I sent him a picture of the whole scene, and I'd like to imagine he about fell over. Twin calves are extremely rare. And, if mama were to have a third calf, that was national news material! Troy told me to keep an eye on everything, but still refrain from going into the pen until he arrived.

Mama had her hands full, and was probably still in pain and very stressed out. It wasn't going to take much to piss her off. In fact, I was risking it just by standing by the gate. A bent rusty gate and flimsy wire fence weren't going to save me from what looked to be a 1,200 pound animal. If mama charged, that fence was going to be as effective protecting me from her as a glass house in a hail storm, so I figured I could climb up the straw bales to the rafters in the shed and be safe from her rampage. Unlike me, she was way too big to squeeze between the bales and the rafters.

I sat on a straw bale and just watched for nearly an hour. After cleaning her calf, mama cow got it to stand so it could nurse. She seemed a lot more concerned about her second calf rather than her first. She pushed her second calf until it could stand, and then guided it towards her udder so it could nurse. At first, it seemed like the little wobbly creature was having trouble finding a teat, but when it did, it guzzled down as much of the colostrum-filled milk it could.

Colostrum is a protein in milk that newborn calves absolutely need to get within the first several hours of being born. If they don't get that colostrum right away, their chances of survival dwindle to nearly zero. Colostrum is what gives little calves strength and energy to keep up with the herd and grow up. After a few days, mama cow stops producing colostrum because her calf won't need it anymore, and within a month, the little calf will wean off mama cow and start grazing.

Sometimes, farmers have to put little nose clips on calves to prevent them from nursing if they don't wean off the udder as soon as they should. The clips don't pierce the calf's nose like a bull ring does. It's just a little clamp with rubber tips that goes into the nose and is attached to another rubber piece that prevents a calf from nursing. It doesn't hurt the calf since it doesn't pierce the flesh. Otherwise, a calf could cause a lot of damage to mama's udder with its teeth that could lead to some nasty udder infections. Mama cows aren't always so keen on kicking their calves when they do stuff like that, even if she is in pain. Some people believe those nose clips are cruel, but it would be much more cruel to separate the calf from the cow after they'd bonded so much, or let a calf with fully developed teeth continue to nurse. 

Anyway...

When the little calf was finally done nursing after it seemed like he was standing there for ages, he laid down and mama laid beside him. Little newborn calves sleep for about 20 hours a day. Being a calf is exhausting after all! I figured that was a good time to get my dirtbike going. The cows were quiet, mama was comfortable but was giving me the death stare, so I couldn't attempt to sneak her first calf to the shade of the pole shed just yet. I'd have to wait for the cows to drift back into the pasture later that day. So I jogged down to the granary, fetched my helmet, and pushed my dirtbike out into the driveway. 

I first had to do some calculations to fuel up my dirtbike. I'd flushed out the gas tank before I left for the farm because it was full of gas that was months old and probably separated from the oil. Two-stroke dirtbikes need a very specific oil-gas mix in order to run. The gas obviously gets the engine going. The oil keeps the engine lubricated. Two-stroke engines run so quickly that they need a lot of lubrication. However, there couldn't be too much oil in the gas mix, because then it would get clogged up, which I found out the hard way a couple years back. 

Unfortunately, grandma Shirley didn't have a 2 gallon gas can like what the oil-gas ratios were based on. So, I had to put my math skills to work and convert a whole bunch of values so I could correctly measure the oil-gas mix with what I had on hand. I had a plastic measuring cup that filled up to about a pint, 5 gallons of gas, 8 ounces of oil, and a dirtbike with a 1.47 gallon tank. I needed to put a 40:1 gas-oil mix into the tank. That's 1 part oil, 40 parts gas, or 6.4 ounces of oil per 2 gallons of gas. I almost had a stroke figuring all that out after being out of school for so long and without any notes. 

Miraculously, I managed to figure out exactly how much oil needed to go into a pint without texting my former high school teacher for help. I filled up my dirtbike's gas tank one carefully calculated pint at a time, shook the dirtbike from side to side a bit to make sure the oil was mixed in with the gas really well since I didn't have a gas can to shake up, and then opened up the fuel valve so gas would start flooding through the carburetor, and towards the spark plug by the engine. I sat on the dirtbike and waited for a few minutes for everything to get filled up. In the past, if I didn't wait for the gas to make its way through all of the tubes in my dirtbike, it wouldn't start. I'd just flood it and have to wait for the spark plug to dry and excess gas to drain out of the overflow straw. 

When I began to kick down on the kickstarter, nothing seemed to be trying to start. The engine would turn, but it wouldn't ramp up and start spewing blue smoke out of the muffler, even when I pulled back the throttle to let more gas through my dirtbike. At first, I figured I'd flooded it, but I questioned that thought since I didn't smell or see any gas leaking out of the overflow straw. I really thought long and hard about everything I'd ever done to get my dirtbike going, hoping my feeble vacation-mode mind could diagnose an issue and come up with a solution. 

"Engines need fuel to run. Why? Engines need fire. Fuel is flammable. Spark plug creates fire. Fuel feeds fire. Fire turns the engine. Then, why isn't the bike running yet? I have the fuel valve open. Maybe I flooded it? Flooding a dirtbike out means that the spark plug is too wet. If the spark plug is too wet, then that means there's too much fuel. Why is it possible for there to be too much fuel? There's a small valve. What is that valve called again? Anyways. If there's too much fuel, that means that valve's opening is too small and cannot provide enough oxy-Wait! The choke! It's called the choke! Did I check the choke? Is the choke open? If that choke is closed, there is no oxygen, and without oxygen there is no fire!" I thought to myself. I couldn't believe how long it took me to think through everything!

I immediately felt for the choke and sure enough, it was closed, preventing any oxygen from getting to the engine. I was a little embarrassed that it took me that long to retain what I'd learned when I first began studying physics my senior year of high school. But as soon as I opened that choke up, my dirtbike roared to life! 

I looked around to make sure no one was aware of my struggles, and then headed off towards the west where the plowed pea field was. There, I had over 50 acres of plowed ground to ride. It wasn't flat, but I could still ride as fast as I wanted to over the rolling hills and not have to worry about getting launched into oblivion. 

A strong steady crosswind made it a little difficult to ride my dirtbike, but I adapted. After years of riding my dirtbike around Elizabeth, Colorado, I was used to riding on windy days and was almost unfazed. But you'd be surprised just how much the wind could influence me, especially since myself and my dirtbike both don't weigh much, and I proudly have a mohawk on my helmet which acts like a sail. Regardless, I'll never take that mohawk off my helmet, and I'll never stop riding in the wind unless it's gusting up to 60 miles per hour. Turns out, riding in 60 mile per hour crosswinds is a bad idea. I only found that out the hard way when I decided to ignore the wind warnings in Elizabeth one day, and almost took out a neighbor's mailbox. 

I rode up the first hill and had to pause. The views on top of that hill were breathtaking. I was surrounded by rolling green hills under a bright blue sky. I was mesmerized by the way the wind moved through the crops in waves, and how the clouds above gently floated across the sky. To the east was the family farm pond. Just a few hundred yards away from that was the neighbor's hunting blind, which he built with windows facing our pond and his trees. Occasionally, my family would give him permission to hunt on our land, since my family hunted deer elsewhere. 

To the west was my uncle Wes's house, which he built on a hill. A grove of trees and tiny creek separated his property from the pea field. I ended up riding over there and letting my dirtbike rest on its side for a few minutes while I searched for Native Americans arrowheads.

Back in the 1800's, the Chippewa were at war with the Mdewakanton Sioux for that land. The blufflands, rolling hills, large lakes, Mississippi river, and the Zumbro river were rich with wildlife year-round, and were way more sheltered from the winter weather than the great plains or far northern woodlands were.

From what I've read, the Chippewa tribe befriended the white settlers, who began trickling into that region in the 1850's. Meanwhile, the Sioux were much less friendly with the white settlers, and had been fighting with the Chippewa awhile already. The Chippewa Native Americans began to trade furs and meat for guns and horses from the white settlers, which they used against the Mdewakanton Sioux tribe. The Sioux in that region didn't have many horses or guns. They were forced to fight the Chippewa on foot with stone weapons. Somehow, the Sioux held their ground long enough to become a recognized and protected tribe in the region 100 years later, even though the Chippewa had the upper hand the whole time. 

That part of Minnesota is so rich with Native American artifacts that local museums and archeological centers stopped accepting artifacts people were bringing in. Instead, they only ask for a picture of the artifact, as well as information on where it was found, to be put in a database. It's one of the few places in the United States where it's perfectly legal to find and keep Native American artifacts, so long as they were found on property that wasn't a recognized Native American burial ground or other designated site, which there are a lot of in that part of Minnesota. Not only is it a felony to take artifacts from designated sites, but according to native american legend, you'll also get eaten by a wendigo. I almost feel bad about giving my little cousins nightmares for a week when I told them the legend of the wendigo around a campfire a couple years ago. Almost. 

Knowing that the field was freshly plowed, and my uncle Wes always found a decent handful of artifacts on that corner of property every year, I decided to quickly look around. Unfortunately, I didn't find anything of historical significance. I found a crushed Budweiser beer can and what looked to be a part of a rusty gutter. But that was all. I tossed the rusty material into the trees and brought the beer can back to the farm to throw away, after I was done pulling off sweet wheelies and hitting the powerband in 5th gear across the field. 

By then, Troy was on his way back from work, and the little calf was still laying in the sun. The other cows had gone out to pasture, including mama cow with her second calf, so I thought about going into yard to get the calf into the shade. When Jacob saw me leaning against the concrete trough, gazing out at the cows on the pasture, he took that as a green light to jump the trough and sprint straight for the calf before I could grab his shirt and stop him. 

Of course, being 8 years older than him, I was obligated to go into the yard with him in case the cows came rushing back. If anyone was gonna get charged by mama cow, it had to be me. 

"Jacob! Hold up! This isn't a good idea! Kid!" I shouted as I ran in front of him and stopped. 

"Why not? The cows are way over there." he innocently replied, pointing towards the pasture while he walked closer and closer to the calf. 

"Mama cow is always watching no matter what." I replied while I grabbed his arm and pulled him closer to me, "She's just as dangerous as a mama black bear. If a baby black bear comes up to say hi, you don't pet it, do you? No! You run screaming in the opposite direction because mama's close. Same thing applies here." 

Jacob stood there thinking about this for awhile. We were only a few feet away from the calf, who was still alive and beginning to stir. Also, the cows had heard us, and I could just feel mama cow staring into my soul. 

"We are done for if that calf makes one little noi-". 

Just then, that little calf let out a shrill cry for help, interrupting me mid sentence. It was scared of us, and wanted mama cow to get rid of us. And, damn, we were scared of it too!

"Run!" I shouted. 

Jacob took off towards the fence just a few yards away, while I ran back towards the trough hoping to distract mama cow away from Jacob if she was charging toward us. I didn't even stop to look back, though I was convinced I could hear the hooves of 1,200 pounds of angry mama cow rushing up behind me. I thought I was just seconds away from being trampled 6 feet deep in grass and cow shit. That wasn't the first time I thought I was about to die in that pasture, and I'm willing to bet it won't be my last either. Holstein Angus bulls and mama cows are some of the most dangerous animals on the planet, right up there with grizzly bears and rhinos!

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" I shouted as I sprinted across the field, nearly slipped onto my knees on an uneven concrete foundation where a barn once stood, and then threw myself over the concrete trough to safety. My toes failed to clear the trough as I attempted to curl my legs in front of me to land, and I ended up falling onto my face and chest in the grass on the other side instead. I wheezed as all of the air left my lungs the second I hit the ground, and I rolled onto my back as I heard Jacob running up to me, asking if I was ok. 

"Yeah... I'm fine... I'm fine... Don't worry. I'm good!" I coughed as I got to my feet and brushed myself off, "This is exactly why Troy didn't want us in there." 

I looked back, and the herd of cows had gotten closer to the yard, including mama. But, we hadn't been chased like I thought we were. The cows were just curiously watching a couple of stupid rednecks running around the yard after being scared by a little calf's moo. They weren't at all concerned about the little calf that had been laying in the yard all day. But, I think Jacob finally understood why Troy wanted us to stay out of the yard until he got there.

I could tell he felt terrible, so I told him about my first experience with Buddy the bull a few years before, so he knew he wasn't the only one who had bad ideas. Truth is, even the most intelligent kids, teens, and adults do stupid shit sometimes. We don't learn if we don't make mistakes, right?

Not even 10 minutes later, I heard a few loud vehicles racing down the country roads towards the farm. I knew those trucks belonged to my family. The Nibbe boys are known for sawing the mufflers off their cars and trucks three minutes after buying them. 

My cousin Wade Jr arrived first in his grey Chevy Camaro, followed by his dad, Wade Sr in his Semi truck, followed by Troy in his lifted Chevy pickup. Both of my cousins had their girlfriends along, because they wanted to see the cute little calf and help where they could. They all parked by the pole shed, and I ran up to meet them and point them in the right direction. The little calf wasn't looking too good. He was sprawled out and breathing heavily in the sun. By then, he'd been out there for at least 6 hours, and he hadn't gotten to his feet or even nursed yet. Time was quickly running out. If that calf wasn't moved into the shade and fed at least a pint of colostrum in an hour, he wouldn't make it to sunset. 

Wade Jr first checked on the calf while Wade Sr drove out to buy some colostrum and milk replacement. Wade's girlfriend was busy talking to Troy's girlfriend and grandma Shirley, while Troy went to check on his steers in the steer pen with Kael and Jacob. I decided I'd go with Wade Jr to see what we could do, if anything, for the little calf. 

Wade Jr knelt down by the little thing and lifted its back leg up. 

"Yup! He's a boy!" Wade excitedly announced, "Hopefully the other calf is also a boy!"

"Shouldn't we move him to the shade?" I asked. 

"Not yet." Wade replied, "We gotta check on the other calf and test mama's temperament first." 

As we walked up to the pasture together to execute one of the most dangerous jobs in farming, my cousin explained to me why the sexes of the twin calves was very important. If they were both cows, then they'd grow up to produce milk and/or have calves of their own. If they were both bulls, then they'd also be fertile and grow up to be just as big as bull calves that had the whole womb to themselves. However, if one twin was a cow, and the other twin turned out to be a bull, neither calf would be fertile, and chances were both would only grow up to be about 3/4ths the size of an average bull and cow. Under his breath, Wade begged God for another bull calf as we got closer and closer to mama.

I was also praying to God, asking for protection. I prayed we wouldn't piss mama off and get trampled to death, and if we did, to forgive us for doing such a stupid thing when Wade and I arrived in heaven. Also, didn't I just give my little cousin Jacob a lecture about the dangers of getting too close to cattle like this? 

Wade wanted to introduce mama's first calf to her, hoping she'd bond with it the same way she bonded with her second calf. While he didn't think we could herd mama over there without her second calf, Wade knew he could lure mama over to the first calf if he carried the second calf over there. I let him know that I thought that was one of the most preposterous ideas I'd ever heard! That was a surefire way to get charged by mama! The only time I'd even consider doing that is if we came in on horseback. Even then, a cow as big as mama cow could easily push a feisty cowhorse to the ground and still turn around and stomp us into the ground.

They say, "Hell hath no fury like a chestnut mare!" Whoever came up with that saying has clearly never been around a freakishly huge cow with her newborn calf. 

Wade dropped to his hands and knees, and I followed suit. It was very windy out that afternoon, and I struggled to stifle the urge to cough now that I was so close to the ground where dust and pollen were being blown into my face. But, it was better than getting swarmed by flies, moths, and mosquitoes, which is what would've happened if it was calmer. Unfortunately, the little orphaned calf was sheltered from the wind where he was laying. He was too far away from the pole shed to get any shade, but close enough so the shed blocked the wind. He was just baking in the sun and being swarmed by flies without any relief whatsoever. 

Wade told me if we made ourselves look smaller by crawling on the grass, mama cow wouldn't get so upset. In my mind, I questioned this, but said nothing. I just made sure to stay behind Wade and have a planned escape route if things went south. Wade was a year older than me, and that was his idea. So if either one of us had to get trampled, it would be him. We crawled right up to mama and her calf. Mama cow was even more massive up close. I'd never seen a cow as big as her, let alone had the guts to crawl right up to her calf to take it from her. 

I got nervous, and backed up a bit while mama cow approached us. But, Wade stayed put and softly spoke to mama as he reached out to pet her. She mooed a little, but it wasn't a warning. It was more of a curious, "Hi. What are you? Can I lick you?" kind of moo. Wade lifted the little calf's leg and excitedly announced, "Yup! Another boy!"

He then tried to scoop up the little bull. But as soon as he had one arm under the calf, mama got much more stressed out. So, again, Wade and I got down to our knees and calmed down mama cow. Wade reached out and rubbed her silky forehead while he quietly talked to her. The cow then turned towards me, and Wade encouraged me to pet her too, so I did. Mama cow was very gentle and seemed to enjoy it when I rubbed my hand up and down her muzzle.

Wade decided it was not a good idea to take her calf away, even if it was just for a few hundred yards. Mama just got too stressed out whenever he attempted to lift her calf off the ground. Instead, we'd bottle feed the orphaned bull calf until he could stand and walk on his own. Then, we'd give this whole bonding thing another try. 

We walked back to the orphaned calf just in time to see my uncle Wade pulling into the farm with all of the necessary supplies to feed him. He stepped out of the truck, grabbed the bags of milk replacement and colostrum, as well as a half gallon calf bottle. He handed these things to grandma, who rushed inside to mix and heat everything up for the little bull calf. 

My cousin Wade's girlfriend wanted to see the healthy calf after visiting with the sick calf. The sight of the little orphaned calf made her very sad, and she wanted to see the healthy calf to lift her spirits. She was a city girl from Wisconsin after all. So, while Wade Jr took his girlfriend out to the healthy bull calf in the pasture, I helped my uncle Wade bring the sick calf into the shade. He scooped the little calf up, and I jogged over to the straw bales to make a straw bed for the calf. The bale I lifted weighed a good 60 pounds or so, which was about as much as the newborn calves weighed. I swung the bale like a pendulum until I had enough momentum to get it over the wire fence, and then I let it fly. As soon as I tossed the straw bale over the other side of the wire fence in the pole shed, I heard movement by the back wall of the shed and stopped to stare in that direction.

There, squeezing through a hole under the steel siding, a curious skunk came crawling up to me. Wade Sr, with the calf in his arms, also stopped mid stride when he saw the skunk. Both him and I shared the same wide-eyed, pale look on our faces, and I mouthed "help me" while the skunk approached. I did not breathe as that curious little stinker came right up to me like a dog and pressed its little nose against my leather boots. It squealed like it was delighted to see me as it curiously sniffed all around my boots. I, on the other hand, wanted to be anywhere but there. If I made any movement or noise, I was going to get sprayed. If I got sprayed, the nickname "Redneck" I'd worked so hard to earn would probably be replaced with something a lot less desirable. 

After the skunk was done checking me out, it sniffed around in the straw for a little bit as it made its way back to the hole it came from. When it was some distance away from me, I felt like I could breathe again. I had just enough courage to slowly pull my phone out, and get a picture of the little guy. The skunk was cute. Not nearly as cute as the little bull calves were. But, if it didn't have the power to ruin my life for three weeks and my dignity forever, I probably would've reached down to pet the fluffy little thing.

Both my uncle and I burst into laughter as soon as the coast was clear. That was our chosen coping mechanism after surviving a near-traumatic experience unscathed. I don't think either of us could believe what just happened. In fact, if I didn't take any pictures, I don't think I would've believed that happened. I clambered up and over the gate and spread the straw bale around in the pole shed while uncle Wade brought the calf over and laid him down in the bed of straw. He was just barely clinging to life. 

Wade asked me to stay with the calf while he went to get the bottle. I laid down in the straw next to the calf. His eyes were open, though barely, and he couldn't even hold his own head up. I was worried we were losing him, so to get his attention, I stuck my finger in his mouth to see if he would suckle. As soon as I did this, his eyes popped open and he began to suckle on my finger as hard as he could. That poor calf was starving and dehydrated, but I was just glad he still had the strength to suckle. If he didn't suckle my finger, then he wouldn't have suckled the bottle once we gave it to him. 

Uncle Wade rushed over with a warm bottle for the calf a few minutes later, and I pulled my finger out of the calf's mouth so my uncle could get him to suckle on something that would actually save him. The calf did take the bottle, but he wasn't drinking very much. He seemed almost shocked to find out that if he sucked on that bottle, he'd get something out of it.

After a few minutes of watching this little bull calf weakly suck on the bottle, Wade handed the bottle over to me and picked the calf up. Maybe if we got the calf to stand, he'd have an easier time drinking. Once we had the calf on his feet, we gave him the bottle again, and this time he seemed to drink more. 

After only drinking a pint or so, the calf dropped his head and collapsed into the straw. He was exhausted. But, that pint of colostrum was a good start, and would ensure he'd make it through the night. We still didn't think he had much of a chance. He might make it through the night, but I didn't think he'd make it through the next day. But, there was a chance, however small it was, that the little calf would pull through. I just told myself not to get too emotionally attached to him.

But, by the time I told myself this, I worried it was already too late. My heart ached for the little calf. In some ways, he reminded me of myself. I too, had a rough start. Yet, I somehow pulled through. Perhaps, with the right care and effort, this little calf would also pull through, though his chances of survival seemed to dwindle more every minute.

As the sun began to set, my uncle brought a bale feeder from the pasture to the lawn to keep the calf in. We planned a huge family dinner that night in Lake City, and we'd done everything we could for the calf. So, while we were gone, the calf could sleep in the shade of the maple trees that lined the cattle yard fence, just feet away from the pole shed. We couldn't keep him in the pole shed like we originally planned thanks to that skunk, but he'd be just as safe in the lawn. There wasn't a drop of rain in the forecast for the next week, the temperatures would be bearable, and the wind was calming down too. If the forecast were to change, Troy promised to be over in a heartbeat to bring that little bull calf home with him. He just wasn't sure if keeping a calf in his living room was something he wanted to do if he didn't have to. 

Once the calf was all settled, I made my way back to the house. Right as I was walking over there, I saw the skunk I saw earlier, only this time he was running across the lawn towards the house. I was worried he was heading into the garage, but he ran along the side of the house instead, and disappeared into the bushes by the open back door.

"Uh oh." I thought, "Did he just find his way into the house?!"

Grandma Shirley came rushing over to me, insisting that I went inside so I could quickly clean up. She didn't care that a skunk possibly just found its way into the house through the back screen door. We had to be in Lake City for dinner in 45 minutes, and I was a mess! My hands were drenched in mud and calf spit from letting it suckle on my fingers, my hair was a knotted up, and I was all dusty from being outside in the wind for the entire day. 

I threw on a change of clothes, scrubbed my face, hand,s and arms until I was sure I didn't have any more calf DNA on them, brushed all of the knots out of my hair, and replaced my dusty cowboy hat with a regular camo cap. When I ventured outside again, my cousins were crowded around the granary. Apparently, they saw the skunk go in there, and they wanted to exterminate it. Troy had a 9 millimeter handgun while Wade had his 12 gauge shotgun. They threw open the granary door and began to inspect the area. 

There was no sign of the skunk, but up by the ceiling towards the back wall, there was a huge bushy trail belonging to a raccoon. My cousins stared up at it, debating on whether or not to blow a hole through the ceiling. The place wasn't in great shape, so they weren't worried about putting holes in the walls. They were more worried about what could happen if they shot a massive hole through the ceiling by the rotting rafters barely holding the second floor up. 

Wade lifted his shotgun a few times, and we plugged our ears while he prepared to shoot, but he let the gun back down each time. He just couldn't do it. It was just too risky. Instead, we just stood there and stared at the ringed tail dangling down from the ceiling, until grandma's shrill voice stopped us from executing another potentially disastrous idea. 

We all packed into vehicles. I ended up riding with grandma, Kael, and Jacob in her minivan, while everyone headed to Lake City in their sports cars and trucks. Lake City was only 10 miles away from the farm, so it didn't take us very long to get to the restaurant of our choice. There, my maternal grandparents met us, and I couldn't wait to tell them about all the adventures I'd had just in that day alone! 

My maternal grandparents seemed a little overwhelmed by my paternal family's lively dinnertime conversations. It was just us in the restaurant, but it sounded like the place was full as we shared stories and laughed at each other's misadventures. My grandparents caught up with the family after not seeing them for 14 years! 

It felt very strange in a way, to have my maternal grandparents sitting at the head of the table surrounded by my paternal relatives. I was too young to remember what it was like when my parents were together and hosted holiday parties with both sides of the family. Now, 14 years later, we were together again. Only, my grandpa Bob wasn't there anymore. That was difficult to deal with, especially when the conversation steered towards stories about grandpa. 

I wish my parents could've kept their drama between themselves, rather than gossiping about it to every ear that would listen. My relatives beyond them weren't at odds with one another. In fact, my relatives missed each other very much, and always asked me to let the other side know they missed them and couldn't wait to see them again, if it was possible. 

I'm still very angry about the fact that it took the death of my grandpa to mend my parents' wounds enough to allow my family to mix again. I think my dad was very touched by the fact my mom flew out to Minnesota with me for the funeral, and my mom was very touched by just how much my relatives cared about me and her. I guess, in life, it often takes a tragedy to bring both sides together on good terms again. But, I really wish that wasn't the case. 

After dinner, everyone, including my maternal grandparents, went back to the farm to get the calf ready for the night. It was going to get down to the high 40's that night, and without another cow to snuggle up with, that calf would get cold. 

Before we prepared his bedding, uncle Wade warmed up another pint of colostrum for the calf while I climbed into the hay feeder and attempted to get the calf to stand. He was just dead weight, and no matter how hard I tried, the calf would just drop to the ground as soon as I relaxed my muscles to let him hold his own weight. At one point, the calf fell so quickly and violently that he nearly knocked himself out on the side of the metal feeder. I was able to hold him up by his torso, but I couldn't catch his head before it went limp and slammed into the side of the feeder. For a second, I thought he just died in my arms, but to everyone's relief, the calf lifted his head and flicked his ears. He was fine. 

I decided to stop trying to get him to stand without any help, and curled him up on the grass. I stuck my finger in my mouth to make sure he'd still suckle, and he did. He first suckled slowly, but then instinct kicked in, and he suckled on my finger like his life depended on it. As long as he could suckle, I figured he still had a chance to grow up into a healthy breeding bull. But only time could tell. 

While Wade jogged over from the house with another warm bottle in hand, Jacob leaned over the hay feeder and told me he wanted to name the calf. I didn't like this idea. I didn't want to become emotionally attached to the calf, or at least become even more attached than I already was, by naming it. But Jacob insisted, and with the help of his brother and my grandpa, they came up with the name "Fighter" for the orphaned bull calf. 

Uncle Wade clambered over the hay feeder and handed me the milk bottle. While he held the calf up, my job was to get the bottle in Fighter's mouth and make him drink. Wade told me to squeeze the bottle a little bit to get some milk into Fighter's system, whether or not he consciously swallowed it down. Otherwise, Wade feared he'd have to bag feed the calf, which involved shoving a tube down the calf's throat and into his stomach. However, there was always a chance that tube could go down the wrong pipe, and there was no way of telling until it was too late. 

Turns out, Troy's herd had another orphaned calf a few years before who needed to be bag fed. Unfortunately, when they tried to bag feed the calf after it refused to drink, the tube went down the wrong pipe, and that calf ended up drowning. It was clearly a very traumatic experience for my uncle, because he told me he would have me be the one to bag feed Fighter if it came down to it. He just could not go through the same thing again. After hearing his story, I didn't want to bag feed the calf either. So, Troy decided if it came down to it, he'd be the one to bag feed Fighter. 

Wade got Fighter on his feet, but Fighter wasn't opening his mouth to accept the bottle. I could feel the anxiety emanating off my uncle as the calf refused to take the bottle, so I held the bottle upright between my feet, held the calf's head with one hand, and forced my finger in its mouth with the other. Then, I picked up the bottle again and switched out my finger for the bottle. Meanwhile, the calf desperately tried to move his head out of the way as we forced the bottle into his mouth, but he eventually began suckling on the bottle as I lightly squeezed it. 

I figured if Fighter had enough fight in him to resist us that much, then he had a decent chance of living through this whole ordeal just fine. Fighter still needed help standing up, and he hadn't taken his first step yet. But at least he was active enough to throw his own head around, when just a few minutes before, he was so weak that he slammed his head into the side of the hay feeder. Clearly, he was getting something into his stomach, even though he really didn't want to eat. So, that encouraged us both to keep forcing him to guzzle down his milk until two pints were down. 

When the calf drank down two pints of milk, we let him down to rest. My uncle Wade asked me to get a couple of straw bales, while my grandpa popped open the trunk of his car and fetched an old flannel blanket to lay on top of the calf. 

I lifted up two bales and carried them back to the hay feeder at once. I was actually pretty impressed by my ability to carry so much weight. Of course, most of the lifting strength was derived from my legs while I just let the bales hang from my hands by the twine. Wade took both bales from me and spread the straw around until the whole floor of the bale feeder was covered in it. Then, he allowed the calf to lay down and curl up, while my grandpa covered the calf in the blanket. That calf was about as comfortable as a calf could get. He was out cold almost as soon as that blanket was laid on top of him. 

By then, it was very late at night. My grandparents wished me a goodnight before heading back to Wabasha where they were staying, and my uncle Wade stayed with me for a bit longer just to make sure the calf was comfortable and all of the gates on the farm were secured. My grandma Shirley urged me to go back inside for the night. Fighter would live through the night, and Wade would be back in the morning to feed him. But, I needed to go to bed, or at least try, since my day had been so long and busy. To be fair, I was exhausted, but I was so anxious about Fighter that I didn't think I could sleep. 

That night, I woke up nearly every hour and couldn't help but go outside and check on Fighter. It was eerily silent outside each time I went out. It didn't help it was completely pitch dark outside except for the light a small flashlight provided me. But, each time I up to the hay feeder, Fighter would be there, snoring away, usually in a different position. He was strong enough to drag himself around the hay feeder. Perhaps he'd have enough strength to stand up on his own the next day. 

When the next day finally dawned, I went outside with another warm pint of milk and fed it to Fighter on my own. Fighter still wouldn't stand no matter what I did, so I just positioned him so he was sitting up. I didn't want to make the poor calf feel sick by feeding him when he was laying on his side. His breakfast would be digested easier if he drank it while his neck and back were above the ground rather than laying right on it. 

That day, I had planned on spending time in town with Kael, aunt Stacy, and grandma. However, I didn't want to go to town unless I knew the calf was under someone else's care. So, we waited until after lunch to leave for town so uncle Wade could watch over the calf. 

Unfortunately, Fighter's condition rapidly deteriorated from 6:30 in the morning when I fed him, to the time we were ready to go to town. I feared he got sick from his breakfast, but uncle Wade knew that probably wasn't the case. The little bull calf refused to move from his spot in the straw, just sprawled out and breathing heavy. Healthy calves sleep curled up in a little ball, regardless of the temperature, and they certainly don't make grunting noises with each breath they take.

Wade figured poor Fighter just didn't get enough colostrum in time to survive, and the fact he was laying out in the hot sun without a breeze just made his condition exponentially worse. He was too weak to stand, when his brother was out with mama cow already running. In fact, after I fed Fighter in the morning, I went out to the pasture to find mama and her calf. Since Wade Jr proved to me mama cow was gentle, I felt comfortable approaching her alone in the morning. 

I had to walk all the way to the other end of the pasture, which was over a half mile away from the farm, to find the cattle. All of the cattle except for mama and her calf scattered when I approached. Mama also went with the herd, but she didn't want to leave her calf behind, and she wasn't afraid of me, so she just plodded along. I didn't want to stress mama out by preventing her from being with the other cattle. That was a really good way to get myself killed. So, I just followed a little ways behind mama and her calf until we got to the water trough in the yard, where the rest of the herd had congregated. 

Mama laid down a little ways away from the rest of the herd, and her calf laid down beside her and curled himself up. I cautiously approached them and then knelt down beside the calf when I got to them. Mama didn't mind me one bit. She knew who I was. As I scratched her calf behind his ear, mama turned her head towards me and began licking my boot in a very affectionate way. In her mind, I was cleaning her calf, so she returned the favor by licking the dust off my boots, returning the shine to them. 

I did enjoy my time in Rochester. Kael wanted to see The Lion King. It was fine. Definitely not spectacular since it was just the same movie from 30 years ago but using CGI to make the animals look real. But, I wouldn't mind seeing it again. Grandma, on the other hand, said she hated it. She hoped they would use real, live-action animals, not realistic CGI. To be honest, I wasn't surprised by grandma's brutal honesty. She's never been afraid to speak her mind, no matter what.

After the movie, Kael wasn't feeling well. He just said he was tired and wanted to go home. Kael has a huge heart, and I could tell by his silence that he was worried sick about Fighter. I was too, but I wasn't nearly as attached to the little calf as Kael was. I think our visit to grandpa's grave on the way back from town made Kael even more upset. Kael was extremely close with grandpa. He didn't say a word from the time we pulled into the church's parking lot with roses for grandpa's grave, to the time we dropped him off at his home. I felt incredibly sorry for my cousin, but there wasn't anything I could do to ease his pain. I just prayed the calf would miraculously make it for Kael's sake. 

When I approached my grandpa's grave, I was hit with an overpowering wave of grief. I managed to hide the pain just long enough to set the roses down on his grave. Grandma hummed grandpa's favorite hymn, and I was taken back into the church the day we laid grandpa to rest six feet deep in God's country. I vividly remembered sitting in the pew sobbing as a choir, 400 large, sang God Be With You one final time before grandpa's casket was carried outside. That was grandpa's favorite hymn. He didn't know how long he had left after his brain aneurysm, so he trusted that God would take care of his family once he was gone. But my grandpa also knew he'd be reunited with us in heaven one day.

I had to walk to the other end of the graveyard, away from my aunt, grandma, and cousin to collect myself. I didn't want them to see my tears. 

I was really close to grandpa Bob. He was my hero. Losing him meant I lost one of my best mentors, when it came to learning how to live life without letting illness and disease define me. Grandpa never ever let his disabilities get in the way of his life. Why should I allow my disabilities get in the way of mine? Grandpa was also a staunch Christian. He never left God's side even when everything that could possibly go wrong, went horribly wrong. My grandpa lost his independence, his movement, and his speech to a brain aneurysm and many other health complications.

He went from being an incredibly strong farmer, to being confined to two canes, then a walker, and finally a wheelchair. His voice was slurred when half of his facial muscles were paralyzed by his condition, and his larynx got weaker and weaker over time, especially during the last five years or so of his life, when he stayed in the ICU for months with Pneumonia, unable to talk because he needed a tracheostomy every time he was admitted. Every time that tube was taken out of his throat, and the hole was closed up, his voice was even worse than before. The last time I saw my grandpa alive, I really struggled to understand what he was saying, when I used to have such an easy time understanding him before. 

He eventually lost his ability to feed himself things like soup and cereal, because as he aged, his motor skills got progressively worse. He also needed help bathing and going to the bathroom. Yet, trapped in that crippled body of his was a brilliant mind. He was still extremely intelligent and witty, and showed that off whenever he had the chance. Unfortunately, people who were unfamiliar with grandpa often assumed he was mentally handicapped like he was physically handicapped, and treated him as such. Well, at least until grandma caught wind of it, or my grandpa got mad and roasted the hell out of anyone who tried to treat him like he had the intellect of a child. 

If anyone ever had a valid excuse to curse God, it was my grandpa Bob. Yet, my grandpa refused to blame God for what happened to him. Instead, my grandpa's disability only forced him to get closer to the Lord, as well as to family. He attended church every Sunday, read his bible regularly, even though he struggled to see even though his thickest pair of glasses in his later years, and prayed over every meal. He never once complained about his condition. He would complain constantly about politicians and bad weather. But he never complained about being disabled. 

In his mind, God was in complete control, and everything happened for a very good reason. And, judging by the life he lived, and the way he passed away, God certainly had grandpa's life in His hands the whole time.

After we dropped off Kael, we returned to grandma's farm, only she left the car, while Stacy and I decided to go to Lake City for some good food at a festival, and to catch up with my cousin Taylor, whom I am very close with. Unfortunately, Taylor and her husband, Charles, were going on a trip up to Duluth together, so they couldn't see us in person. Instead, they Skyped with us for an hour while they drove, and we spent most of that time talking about Taylor's baby, who was on the way. 

All of the Nibbe girls grew up being tomboys. At first, we thought it was more of a nurture rather than a nature thing, since boys outnumber girls in the Nibbe family 3 to 1, until I came along. Growing up, I was surrounded by girls, since girls outnumber the boys 3 to 1 on my mom's side. My mom tried to get me to be a girly girl like her. She even got the help of her friends to try and get me into playing dress-up and with barbies. But, it didn't work. Wearing jeans and playing rough just came naturally to me. 

My mom was persistent, however. She tried to make me girly for most of my life. Even very recently, she has tried to get me to change my mind about hunting and camo hoodies, and tried to bribe me into going clothes shopping at the mall and getting my hair done. I've turned her down every time.

My aunt Stacy and cousin Taylor both wanted to know where my senior pictures were. I told them I hadn't gotten them done yet, and they were shocked! They asked why. I told them I just didn't have time yet, which was way easier than admitting that my mom was actively getting in the way of my attempts to get my senior pictures taken.

I refused to dress formally for those pictures. I wanted to be myself in those very important pictures, just like my cousins were allowed to be. Troy wore a dusty flannel shirt over a graphic T shirt and a Fox Racing cap, and posed with his tractor and truck. Wade Jr basically did the same thing as Troy. And Taylor took her senior pics in her high school basketball uniform with a basketball under her arm.

Why should I not do the same? Why should I be forced to wear my hair in braids, a cashmere sweater, skinny jeans, and plain boots, when I should be able to do my own thing? I hated, and still hate the professional, formal pictures my mom has made me take over the years. My smile is clearly inauthentic in all of those pictures, and I just don't look right wearing those clothes and those hairstyles. I showed my aunt Stacy my most recent professional pictures, and she cringed just as hard as I did when I first saw them. To my mom, they were lovely. Though, to me and my aunt, they were a disaster. 

Long story short, I rebelled against my mom's wishes. My photographer friend took me on a trail ride, and while we didn't use professional equipment, we still tried to do a little photo shoot using our iPhones. Unfortunately, getting the "perfect picture" was impossible most of the time, especially when we were on a foothill where everyone except myself lost their hats, and the horses were so nervous that they constantly chewed on their bits and refused to stand still. Even though according to my mom, I'd committed nearly every senior picture deadly sin imaginable while on that strawberry roan, those pictures from that ride turned out way better than any "perfect" professional picture I've ever been forced to pose for. 

I've always felt so wrong in a dress, makeup, or in a shirt with just a few frills. Every attempt I've ever made at being formal and/or girly quickly ended up with me taking the braids out of my hair, and running to the bathroom to throw on jeans and a camo hoodie before the bride and groom had a chance to say their vows (thanks aunt Jessie for tolerating me at your wedding)! 

Clearly, being a tomboy has just been written into my genetics. 

I joked with Taylor and Charles about what would happen if they had a girl, and this girl decided she was more interested in wearing a princess dress than a pair of jeans. Taylor and Charles both shuddered at the idea. Obviously, they'd still love their little princess unconditionally, but they'd be wandering through uncharted territory, and would need help from girly friends to learn how to properly play dress-up!

After we ended the Skype call, my aunt Stacy and I walked down to the heart of Lake City from her house. We enjoyed grass-fed beef bratwursts and organic lemonade on the banks of lake Pepin, while a bluegrass band played iconic bluegrass songs nearby. The weather was absolutely perfect. It was sunny out, but a strong wind blowing off the lake kept things cool and the air fresh.

There were a lot of sail boats on the lake that day, as well as water skiers and windsurfers who were taking advantage of the late summer evening. Minnesota summers are very short. They usually see their first snow in mid or late September, and by December, the snow is often so deep the only way to get from place to place is to get on a snowmobile. Then it doesn't usually thaw out completely until late May. Even then, it's not unheard of to have a snowy day in June. 

After we visited the festival for a little bit, we got back to my aunt's house to get her car, then headed to an ice cream shop. I'm not the biggest fan of ice cream, but my aunt insisted it was the best ice cream Lake City had to offer. I'd love it! So, we arrived, I ordered just a plain old chocolate cone, and my aunt got a scoop of Neapolitan on a cone. It wasn't terribly busy in the ice cream shop, but my aunt went looking for a quiet place away from everyone else for us to sit. She pushed open a door that was labeled "additional seating" and nearly jumped out of her skin when she came face to face with a bear! At least, that's what she told me when I asked what made her jump. 

So, I cautiously pushed open the door and walked into a room just stuffed full of beautiful taxidermy, including the grizzly bear that startled my aunt. As I wandered around the room, I noticed everything had a price tag. The grizzly bear only cost $400! I couldn't believe it! All of the taxidermy in that room was extremely cheap, even though it was high quality. I thought it was too good to be true, that there must be a catch. But, when I found two deer skulls in perfect condition, both $25 each, I couldn't resist trying to buy them. I had plenty of money in the bank, so I figured, why the hell not?

I brought them up to the cashier, and it turns out there was one minor catch; I had to pay in cash which I had none. Luckily, there was an ATM just across the street. So, I finished my ice cream in one massive gulp, and crossed the road to withdraw some cash while my aunt Stacy tagged along with me. I took out about $80 in cash from my account. I only needed $50 for the deer skulls, but I wanted a little extra cash in my wallet for the road. 

On our drive back to the farm, aunt Stacy and I speculated on the condition of the calf. Before we even left Lake City, we both agreed that little Fighter was probably done fighting. We were certain that the little bull calf was dead, and my uncle Wade probably already took the little calf to his final resting place by the pond. The only evidence of him ever being alive would be the straw left behind in the lawn and the few pictures we took of him. 

When we arrived at the farm, I was surprised to see the hay feeder still set up under the trees. There was no sign of uncle Wade's truck, but the gate to the pasture was open! My aunt and I looked at each other, and then she decided to drive into the pasture to see if we could find Wade. We drove to the crest of the hill and immediately came up to uncle Wade's truck. Just ahead of him was the herd of cattle, with mama cow standing nearby.

We watched as uncle Wade cautiously got out of his truck, followed by his wife, Jen. Together, Wade and Jen dropped the tailgate of the truck, revealing a much more healthy looking bull calf in the back. I could not believe what I was seeing. In fact, I tried to convince myself that my uncle had taken his son's advice, and tried to bring the second calf to the first calf to get mama to bond with them both. But, as I thought this, I saw mama's second little calf poked his head out from behind her to see what Wade was doing. 

My uncle Wade lifted little Fighter out of the back of the truck and stood him up. My jaw dropped as Wade took a few steps towards the cattle, and little Fighter followed. 

Unfortunately, mama cow wanted nothing to do with Wade or her calf. Even when Stacy and I drove away from the pasture to see if giving the cattle space would relieve some of the stress, Wade did not successfully get Fighter to bond with his mom. About 20 minutes after we initially found Wade in the pasture with Fighter, he returned to the yard with Fighter in the back of his truck. 

Wade and Jen dropped the tailgate and put Fighter back down on the lawn. Wade lifted the hay feeder and rolled it out of the way for a little bit while we let Fighter wander around on his wobbly legs. I noticed a few tears streaming out of Fighter's eyes, which could be there for a handful of reasons, including distress. Yes, cattle do cry when they get very stressed out and/or severely injured, just like we do. Apparently, mama cow wanted nothing to do with her first calf. They got Fighter right up to her, and he even attempted to nurse, but mama cow just kicked him in the head then pushed him to the ground with her huge head. If Wade hadn't stepped in as soon as she pushed her calf down, she would've killed Fighter. She was seconds away from stomping the poor calf to death, but Wade stepped in and scared her off before she could finish the job. Fighter was a little shaken up but ok. 

Apparently, this is not uncommon. Beef cattle are some of the best mothers in the cattle world, but most of the time, even they can only keep track of one calf at a time. Diary cattle, on the other hand, are some of the most terrible mothers in the world. Since they've been selectively bred for milk over thousands of years, their motherly instincts have slowly faded out. Dairy cows still have the instinct to lick their calves clean after birth, but more often than not, diary cows will forget about their calves soon after, or just violently reject them like mama cow did to poor little Fighter. That's why diary farmers, and many beef farmers, separate the cows from the calves shortly after birth. It's just not safe or humane to keep a calf with its mother when she is likely going to kill it a little later on, whether purposefully or just on accident. 

I sat down in the straw with little Fighter as he attempted to take a few steps. He still had a lot of trouble, especially on the uneven ground. While I was sitting with him, he fell over a couple of times, and I had to pick him back up. But, he stayed standing for a full hour, fully alert of his surroundings. His eyes were wide, his ears were forward and occasionally twitched, he swished his tail, and even pressed his nose against the ground and my arm to explore his surroundings more. I was just speechless. Just hours before, that calf had been on its side barely breathing. But, for some reason, he was on his feet in the evening, alert and curious of his surroundings. 

I didn't, and still don't know what uncle Wade did, or who he got involved, to save little Fighter's life. Maybe he finally got the vet out. Maybe he did nothing at all, and Fighter's survival was literally a miracle. Whatever happened, I was just overjoyed to see Fighter on his feet, and made sure to let pretty much everyone I knew that the little bull calf was going to make it. 

That night, I slept a lot better than I had for the previous nights I'd stayed on the farm. I also had a very vivid dream about my grandpa, which probably had something to do with it. In the dream, I was walking down the middle of Main Street in Zumbro Falls. It was a ghost town. There wasn't another car or person in sight, except for an old, rusty red pickup parked by the mechanic's shop. For some reason, I decided to walk into the mechanic's shop. Inside the little lobby room I walked into, nobody was there except for my grandpa, who was seated in a chair reading a magazine. He looked just like I remembered him. 

I sat down in the empty seat next to him. He slowly closed the magazine he was reading and shakily put it down on the floor. Then, he turned towards me and reached out to hold my hands in his. This was something he always did whenever we spent time together. He knew my hands were always cold, so he enjoyed wrapping up my hands in his until they were just as warm as his. 

After a few moments of silence, my grandpa sighed, and in his usual gruff, slurred voice said to me, "I'm proud of you. I'm very proud of you. Remember that."

After he said that, he wrapped me in a tight hug, held me for several minutes, then slowly pulled away, and got up to his feet. I was baffled. He hadn't been able to stand up without help for over 30 years! And he just got up from his chair like it was nothing. I stood up too, but something stopped me from following him out of the mechanics shop. 

When the solid wooden door closed, I saw my grandpa walk past the window next to the door. I only saw his back, but judging by his posture and his longer brown hair, he was a young man again. I got up to run after him, but when I swung open the door and stepped outside, my grandpa was gone. He had just vanished without a trace. The red pickup I'd seen parked by the shop was also gone.

I woke up with hot tears streaming down my cheeks, just before my morning alarm went off.

I've had a lot of dreams about grandpa Bob after his death. Each one was different than the others, but they always left me feeling the exact same way. I was always left incredibly sad, but relieved at the same time, because in each dream, I saw my grandpa as a young man again, doing the things he loved to do before he became bound to a wheelchair. 

I was sad that I'd be leaving the farm that morning with my maternal grandparents. We weren't gonna drive straight home that day. We'd stop by the farm in Nebraska for another day or two before arriving back home in Colorado. In a way, I was excited to return to Nebraska. Jeremy, and my grandma's niece's husband, Nick, promised to take me shooting for several hours in the afternoon if we got there in time. I wanted to spend some time with Jeremy and Nick, and prove my shooting skills to them. 

At the same time, I still didn't feel like I'd spent enough time on the farm. In fact, I never feel like I've spent enough time on the farm every time I've had to leave. If I left for Nebraska Friday morning, I wouldn't be able to watch over the calf more, and I'd miss Troy's autocross race, which he invited me to attend if I stayed.

Every year for several years, Troy and/or Wade Jr have entered into the county autocross race, and won nearly every single time. Troy and his buddies always turn a shitty little sports car into something that looks like the General Lee, complete with the big 01 on either side of the car, and a giant confederate flag spray painted on the roof. If The Dukes of Hazzard was set in southeastern Minnesota, it would basically be a documentary of Troy's life. That man has quite the wild side and need for speed! So do the rest of the Nibbe's, including myself.

To be honest, my driving habits seem to reflect my dad's more than they do my mom's. I'm not a speeder, but I do like to put the hammer down to make it up to speed before everyone else!

As bummed out as I was for missing out on seeing my cousins destroy cars for fun, I knew that I'd have many more opportunities to see them race. But going shooting with Jeremy and Nick was a rare treat that we'd been planning for months. I didn't want to ditch something so special to attend something I could attend every other year if I wanted to. 

Before the sun was up that misty Friday morning, I was up packing my bags, getting dressed, and breathing medications into my airways while grandma made us a hefty breakfast. After breakfast, I fed the calf again. He was groggy but alert, and for the first time, I didn't have to force the bottle into his mouth. He drank his first morning pint down eagerly, and even tried to bump the bottle in my hand to get the milk to flow faster out of the bottle. Calves do that to their mothers' udders to get more milk to flow into the teats when they're eating. Unfortunately, it doesn't work the same way with the bottle. 

I made a mental note to let grandma know the little guy would need another pint that moment. He was very hungry, and needed that extra nutrition from another pint of milk. 

Shortly after that, my grandparents arrived to load up the dirtbike. They visited with grandma Shirley while they lifted the bike on the rack and tied it down. I packed my bags into the car, said goodbye to the calves one last time, promised grandma Shirley I'd be back on the farm soon, and headed westbound for Nebraska before the morning mist burned off.