A Rancher’s Tribute to Dad
By Shad Sullivan
In late May or early June of 2011 I was sitting in the living room of my folks home watching the late night news. As I remember, my mother and older sisters were also present. We were cussing and discussing how terribly dry it was and the consequences of actions that may have had to be taken. My dad lay in his hospital bed in the communal dining room talking to himself, reaching for things unknown to us, in and out of sleep. Delusional and delirious all at the same time.
Earlier in the day I had pushed him in his wheel chair out to the old bunkhouse porch where, together, we sat on the swing. He enjoyed the fresh air, watch the horses in the house trap and he slowly laid his hand on the nap of his dog. He was too weak to move quickly. We conversed long, I was in a panic trying to learn the things I had taken for granted through the years. I tried to write his history in the map of my mind as quickly as I could, skipping around like an old man with dementia questioning him on what ever came to my mind at that second. I was trying, for months I had been trying to learn. Learn things I already knew, for confirmation. And learn things I had never known, for the history books. Maybe I had waited too long? His eyes were glossy, his countenance was weak and I realized he was tired. One more question, albeit an important one, “Dad, what do you want me to do with all of these cattle if it doesn’t rain?” We had just finished sending almost 3000 head of yearlings to our grass in southeast Colorado and it was a dry booger. I remember his leathered hands, his red and drawn cheeks as the brim of that old felt hat pointed to the ground. It was almost like he hadn’t heard me when he suddenly raised his head, looked me in the eyes and said, “I don’t know Shad, I’m done.” Defeat.
We had been taking turns watching over the patriarch of our operation for about three weeks. One of my sisters during the days and I held the night guard down. Every single night. And every night brought something new and different. Once he woke up and started chewing on me because all of those new Mississippi calves were in the house and “your mom is going to tan your hide” if I didn’t put them in the pens. I told him I sent them back out and that satisfied him. It confused me as he knew I was there, but he also thought those calves were in the room with him. Another night I had fallen asleep on the couch when I awoke to a very powerful voice in my ear that just said “Shad.” I rose quickly thinking it was my dad needing me but I quickly realized he was sleeping peacefully. I gently laid my hand on his head and when I did, he opened his eyes and asked me to sleep beside him. My heart broke for him. I gently slipped my arm under his neck and slid my 250 pound frame along side of him, careful to not cause him pain or break any bones. He was so small. Uncomfortably, I was as still as I could be and I pressed my cheek against his head and cried a little. I don’t think he was scared, but I dang sure was. Not of death, not of life, but of the unknown.
As I rose from the sofa to get ready for bed I happened to look south out of that dining room window and I panicked and said “Oh shit” the whole country is on fire! Instantly the sisters sprung up and dads eyes opened and he sprung into action! He got out of that bed so fast it caused chaos! Kristy was trying calm Dad down, Kelly was trying to get her boots on and mom was frantic but was glued to her chair with a body cast as colt had broke her back during a windstorm a month prior. Me and Kelly loaded our shovels and headed south out of the driveway as all we could see were flames and billows of glowing smoke on the horizon. The further we got down the road we realized the fire was much farther away than our south end..... it was 85 miles further. But somehow on top of Antelope Mesa, the place we have called home for four generations, it looked like it was on us. I often tell people we can see from Monument Hill clear to Raton Pass and even the fireworks on top of Pike’s Peak on New Years, 70 miles out. What a gift.
My dad was never the same after that night. I suppose the quick shot of adrenaline created in him at my panic did him in. His pain worsened and we ended up keeping him asleep most of the time for the next two weeks. A neighbor and I dug his grave in a hill that overlooks the Arkansas valley to the East and the mighty Rockies to the west, less than 15 miles from the place of his birth. He spent his whole life there. I then took his international tractor, and pushed the dirt into that hole, he had come Full circle.
That year, it never rained. I sent those cattle to Wyoming, South Dakota and Nebraska. And I sold a few. I don’t know how, but we made it through. And that seems to be the resounding question these days. Through the corruption, the failed markets, the fires, the the floods, the droughts and the blizzard’s, Gods favor and grace never waivers. Even when you think it does..... it doesn’t.
As his only son I understood each step he took, each breath he fought to grab and each thought he was so confused by. Perhaps I understand because my mother says I am just like him or maybe it is a lifetime of walking beside him helping to build an operation so many others envy. It might be the butt blistering whippin’s he laid across my backside in the name of love and doing right by others that helps me understand. None the less, I understand. I understand that your word is your bond and a handshake is a binding contract. I understand that nothing comes without hard physical labor, that honesty and integrity are key and “lying won’t get you your dreams.” I understand how to spot a sick calf days ahead of time, how to manage forage availability and utilization of commodities markets to protect my investment. I understand the timing and stroke of an old windmill that like he, shows much wisdom in its own production. I understand the importance of faith and family and “we wouldn’t be where we are without mom.” I understand that we rarely saw eye to eye and every argument was a time to learn through his impatience and my wrecking something again. Yes, I understand….because of his wisdom I understand.
Even then, when the calmness of the sunset had begun, his eyes wandered about the room catching a glimpse of a wondering calf and an unbranded colt. I reached out and took his hand as if I were meeting him for the first time and though it was probably caused by the wild signals his ever weakening brain was sending he squeezed hard and with confirmation as if to say, “Son I’m proud of you, understand?” Little does he now know, however, that is it me who is proud of him. Dad……? Do you understand? Thank you for everything Dad.
In honor of my selfless Dad, Jerry Sullivan, Oct 25, 1940 – June 16, 2011
