Tumbleweeds? Aren’t they just the occasional signifier of an imminent outlaw shootout on old westerns? Apparently not. I sat in the pickup with Dad that morning, silent and overwhelmed by the scope of this seemingly innocuous problem. The weeds grow unchecked, die, dry out, break off, and tumble away…creating yet another ranch plague. It seems that the green weeds that eventually turn into tumbleweeds are very appetizing to cattle and are usually gobbled up when they are young and tender. If nothing is done, though, the first big snowstorm will cover the tumbleweeds and provide an easy way out for all the cattle in the pasture, who could simply walk over the readymade snow-and-tumbleweed ramps.ĭad says that the tumbleweeds are unmanageable this year because so many ranchers had to sell all of their cattle during the drought. The weeds along the fence could be burned, too, but that would also burn the fences. We spent two hours that morning clearing the tumbleweeds off of my brother’s porch and burning them, fully aware that another windy afternoon would render our work futile. They blow in and around the prairie homes, filling up the front porches from floor to ceiling, blocking entry and exit.
They run a 40-foot swath from the fence out into the pasture and fill every trail on the hills down which the cattle walk to get to water.
Dad scattered feed onto the hardened, barren ground and we counted the furry bodies to check against the “one missing.” The ground is especially barren this year, as we have just emerged from one of the worst droughts in northeast New Mexico since the Dust Bowl Days.ĭown every barb-wired fence line are millions (literally) of tumbleweeds, stuck between the wire rows and drifting over the south side like a post-blizzard snow fence of prickly, inconvenient, round plant skeletons. At the sound of the “feed wagon,” they quickly and awkwardly waddled to us, some with fresh, wobbly baby calves underfoot. We made our way from pasture to pasture, checking and feeding a divided herd of very pregnant and very hungry heifers. The morning after Christmas, I hopped in the pickup with my dad to take ranch census. I have written about our “country” lives before, but every time I come home, it seems there is a new lesson to learn. Then smack in the middle of their everyday worlds, those people encounter the unexplainable–and it’s always the game-changer.Every Christmas, I make my way from the twinkle-light lit avenues of Chicago back to rural northeast New Mexico to spend time with my family on the cattle ranch where I grew up, outside of a tiny little agricultural community two hours from the nearest airport. In every book she keeps this promise to her Loyal Reader: “I will tell you a story in a distinctive voice you’ll always recognize, about people as ordinary as you are–people who have been slammed by something they didn’t sign on for, and now they must fight for their lives. Ninie now writes suspense–every flavor except pistachio: psychological suspense, inspirational suspense, suspense thrillers, paranormal suspense, suspense mysteries. After a 25-year career as a journalist she figured out that making up facts was a whole lot more fun than reporting them, she turned to fiction and never looked back. Ninie Hammon (rhymes with shiny, not skinny) grew up in Muleshoe, Texas. Will the chasm between them grow wide enough that neither of them will ever be able to cross it again? A symbol of all the good in Bonnie’s life that has been taken away and is now gone forever.īeau must replace the trees, but his only solution takes him even farther away from his daughter. After nineteen months in a North Korean prisoner-of-war camp, Beau McGrath has lost the ability to love.Ī New Mexican blizzard claims the county’s Christmas trees, and the loss is devastating. Now she aches for her daddy’s return from Korea to fill the emptiness that’s been carved out of her heart ever since Mama’s passing.īut the father who left Muleshoe, Texas, three years before has come home as somebody else. It was lonely enough out there before eleven-year-old Bonnie McGrath lost her mother. It’s Christmas in 1953 on the dusty High Plains of West Texas.
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