The Ranch. More than Land; a Legacy of Love.

"The Ranch is sold." my dad told us the other day. I hadn't really thought of what this would mean to me all this time it was on the market. So when I heard these words of finality, I was stunned. Change is inevitable and there is nothing any of us can do to slow the river of time.  Still, I find that I am full of profound and mixed emotions as I think of this big change in the history of our family. It brings me some peace to know that the new owners intend to restore the old homeplace to its heyday glory, the woman who is buying it having spent her youth riding her horse past the fields full of frolicking foals. It seems she is as romantically sentimental about it as I am, and for that I am grateful. The Ranch will retain her wild, casual beauty and will continue to offer safe harbor to horses and those who love them. 

If one place on this earth could be called my home, it is The Metro Ranch. It is a small place, compared to other spreads that bear that grand title, its footprint barely covering fifteen acres. But to me, and to all who found shelter from the harshness of life under the ancient cottonwood trees and in the company of Mimi while sipping iced tea on the porch swing, well, the Ranch was much more than what a casual onlooker might see.

The Ranch rests at the foot of the Rocky Mountains just north of Golden, Colorado and a bit south of Boulder. My grandparents, Mimi and Papa, bought this place to put down some roots and draw an end to the somewhat nomadic lifestyle they had lived up to that point. After decades of zig-zagging across the nation as Papa's baseball contracts dictated, they wanted a place for the family to feel at home, for good.

In the early days, this area was an outpost for horse and cattle folk. Smallish homesteads peppered the landscape in a patchwork of corrals, pastures, fence-lined lanes, barns, dairy and beef operations serviced by old pickup trucks and tractors. And, of course, there were the animals; cows of every breed and horses of every color, it seemed. There were rabbits, llamas, goats, and donkeys living good lives in the fresh air. No suburbs encroached on the wild and scrubby wilderness that framed these farms in green and yellow-gold. The view to the front range of the Rockies was unimpeded. And to my eye, the Metro Ranch shined like a beacon, a bastion of modest excellence, quiet pride, open-doored friendliness, earnest hard work -- and the unconditional love of family. 

I came home to the ranch from the hospital after I was born. It is the first place I called home and to this day, the Ranch is part of my very being. Winemakers tell us how grapes take on the qualities and taste of the earth they grow in; they call this effect "terroir." Well from day one, my feet were planted in that soil, and no matter where I would later roam, the Ranch seasoned and influenced the flavor of my life. I am a Coloradoan, raised on The Ranch. I grew up free and loved and unfettered in this safe harbor, protected by the family's love and a million blessings showered upon my head from the cottonwood trees above. I was a country kid raised in what was, then, a flyover state. I knew the clean, tangy smell of hay and horse sweat and dung in the hot summer sun, the sound of lazy flies buzzing and the sound of horse's tails swooshing them away. My nose learned to smell snow coming and could tell if a warming chinook wind was on the way.  I knew the deep love and bond of family as I played countless make-believe games with my sisters and cousins under the bright, blue bowl of the Colorado sky.

The family flexed and grew and the Ranch stretched and grew to accommodate all our needs. My dad had inherited a bit of a nomadic spirit, no doubt left over from his early days of life, so we moved around quite a bit. But we always seemed to land back at the Ranch in between adventures. Mimi and Papa welcomed us with open arms, even if there was some question of how to make it work. One time when we came back our family was too big to stay for long with Mimi and Papa in their house. There were three of us kids at that time. I was seven, and Sumati was four, and Lakshmi was three.  So, the project to remodel the old milking barn into a dwelling began, in earnest. When Papa, Dad, and Uncle Mitty finished their work the new place was dubbed, The Bunkhouse. True to its history, upcycling and new purpose, that little building had personality, and that's for sure. There used to be two big sliding barn doors that would let the cows in to eat at the milking stanchions. One of the doors was left hanging, but sealed off to become a wall, and the other door was left working. It opened out onto a concrete pad (perfect for biking and roller skating!) that sat on the edge of the back pasture. Papa and dad knocked the stanchions out with sledgehammers. By the time they got it done, there was a slope in the floor that ran the length of the room. It was quirky, but we kids liked it. We could slide on it in our slippers. Kids are more interested in fun than in flat.

The concrete block walls made the house hard to heat in the winter, so we wore warm pajamas. Sometimes we would wake up to find our blankets had frozen to the wall! But we didn't care. We just got up and jumped into our clothes as fast as we could or, if was a Saturday and there were cartoons on TV, we'd settle in the living room wrapped in our blankets. Our ears would prick up when we heard Papa outside feeding the horses, and often we'd go out and help him with the chores. He'd sing, and we'd skip along behind him.

The giggles and shrieks of little girls filled the air at the Ranch as we were almost always outside. We wandered around fearlessly barefooted and barely dressed, like aborigines, from the moment we left the house until mom called us in for supper. There was a line of cottonwood trees that are probably as old as the planet itself that ran the length of the Ranch along the ditch bank. The ditch bank was a high berm that was broad enough to drive a truck along and was controlled by a water authority. Mostly we liked it because the earth was soft and easy to dig in as we basked under the shade of those big ol' trees. Usually, there was a cluster of horses following us around to share the shade with us. We climbed fences to look into the deep brown of a mare's eye and pet her soft nose. We'd feed them handfuls of grass or clover that we'd pick and we'd laugh when the huge animals would gently pluck these sweaty offerings from our grasp.

There was a line of old box cars that ran down the center spine of the Ranch. These were more than merely horse shelters, to us they were access to the top of the world. We'd climb the sides of the boxcars because they had ladders built-in, to run across their tops and we'd leap from car to car like you see in the movies. We didn't know then how lucky we were for the absolute freedom we felt on those days. Never ones to miss a chance to build a fort, we'd drape sheets or towels over the tree branches that hung over the top of the boxcars and would eat peanut butter sandwiches in our little abodes. We were literally on top of the world here - our world, anyhow. And that's all that mattered. When we were up there, we could see everything for what seemed like miles.

On one side of the boxcars were the paddocks and the lane that ran from the main house to the bunkhouse. On the other side, there was a marshy area that we were not allowed to play around. The marsh drained into a little pond where we were allowed if we were careful. We plucked cattails and broke them open delighting in the billowy seeds that burst forth and then blew away on a breeze. We caught frogs, newts, pollywogs and garter snakes and brought them home to be pets for a day. We found out just how dangerous the sucking mud that surrounds the pond could be when a couple of horses sunk into the ooze and had to be pulled out with the neighbor's tractor. That scared the crap out of us, and we were more cautious around the pond after that. But that didn't stop us from strapping on ice skates in the winter when the ice was thick and the air was frigid. We'd go round and round that tiny ice patch until we nearly had frostbite and then would run home to huddle in front of the propane heater to warm our toes.

The winters were white and windy with snow drifting like meringue along the lane that connected the bunkhouse to the main house where Mimi and Papa lived. We would wade through it, our breath puffing out in clouds while the cold air made our nose hairs freeze. It was quiet in the snow, the sounds of horses chuffing and even our own usually shrill voices muffled by the white insulation. We tramped up and down that lane to and from the bus stop each day. There was hardly ever a snow day in Colorado. They put chains on the buses and away we went.

When the earth turned in her slumber and spring came it was mud season! Everything was drippy, wet, soggy, sloppy and cold. The icicles that used to hang on the horse's manes in February melted away in March, replaced by mud stockings that went from hoof to high above their knees. As messy as this was, we didn't mind. The snow melted into the earth, filling the underground aquifers and the grass in the glade began to look green again. But what was even better about spring for us at the Ranch was the baby horses! In the quietude of late winter, the mares had given birth. There is nothing quite so sweet as the nicker and whinny of a foal. And because we lived in the bunkhouse on the edge of the back pasture we got to see them every day. Baby horses are curious, and because the mares knew us so well, they'd let the foals come right up to us so we could pet their velvet noses.

As years went by, we eventually moved away from the Ranch, landing in other places that added their terroir to my life.  We moved on, and it was someone else's turn to find shelter from life's storms at the Ranch. Everyone lived in the Bunkhouse at some point; all my dad's siblings and their families, if they had them. My aunt came with my cousins after her divorce, my uncles both lived at the bunkhouse with Geoff staying on long after we'd all gone to continue helping Mimi and Papa. Some of us grandkids even came to the Ranch as young adults, in between chapters of our lives. There are countless stories of hardship and sacrifice as each of us landed at the Ranch in need of a place to get our feet back under us, find our way or make a new start. We weathered family squabbles that melted into family forgiveness and happy reunions.  We helped with the back-breaking work required to run the place, when we could, out of appreciation and gratitude for the gift of this haven bestowed upon us by the patriarch and matriarch of Clan Metro.

I came back to Colorado virtually on the eve of my 21st birthday, penniless, but strong in body, rich with ideas and full of aspiration. I found shelter at Mimi and Papa's and with Uncle Geoff in the bunkhouse. Geoff, being only four years older than me, was more like a big brother. We had a blast hanging out with his friends, riding dirt bikes and shooting bows, cooking out and fixing cars in the shade of one of those, you guessed it, big ol' cottonwood trees. Geoff and I shared the responsibility of taking care of the place when Mimi and Papa went traveling. One summer I repainted the sign out front for them as a coming home surprise.

The late winter and early spring brought foaling season. For a couple of seasons, I slept in the barn next to Mimi so I could help her do her most important work; bringing those foals safely to life. We cleaned stalls and fixed new paddocks for the moms and babies to feel cozy. We administered shots and oral medications which usually involved me or Geoff rolling in the mud with a 150lb foal while Mimi deftly gave the shot. At the end of the day, we'd retire to the house, cook supper and get ready for another night in the barn waiting for the next foal's feet to hit the ground. As spring warmed up, Mimi and I would sit on the porch swing sipping coffee or iced tea, depending on the time of day. We'd watch the squirrels and birds scamper about in search of the corn she'd thrown them. Papa would usually be cutting wood but sometimes he would join us in conversation. These were peaceful moments before the next flurry of chores that kept the Ranch thriving and alive. We fed it so that it could feed us. 

For fifty-five years this little patch of earth has been the real and metaphorical beating heart of the family. It remains a fixture in our memories as the place where we, The Metros, were established, grew strong and bonded so tightly together. I know I romanticize how I feel about Christmases here and playing hide and seek in the hay barn. But that's okay. It is a romance. I love this place, the memories and the way I felt when I lived there. There is not one single place on this earth, well until George and I built our place, where I laughed, loved and lived more fully. In no other place did I learn more about myself and what kind of person I would be in the world.

To this day, when a summer storm rises out of the west and frames sun-limned trees in stark contrast with deepest periwinkle purple, I smile from my very soul. I am transported to my youth and those carefree days on the Ranch with the sound of horses running before the storm and the cottonwood trees singing as the wind blows through their leaves.