I’m happy. This morning, I’m sitting on my back porch, warm coffee in hand, doing nothing -yet, doing everything I ever dreamed of. I’m a rancher. One who is perched upon a tiny bit of God’s green earth that the bank agrees I may inhabit. Residing with me is my husband of 31 years, 5 dogs of various breeds, 3 horses and a donkey, a few Angus cows, some ducks, chickens, guineas and a cat who reigns supreme.

Sitting on this porch allows me such a sense of satisfaction and contentment. We built it this past summer, so its newness hasn’t worn off. It’s large and seems endless since the railings are not yet complete. The wood is still green and unstained, uncovered except for some little curls of chicken poop and a few brown fallen leaves. There is a menagerie of mismatched furniture out here – a hammock to doze in, comfy chairs past their prime, and a flaking outdoor dining table large enough for dinner plates.

I am proud that we placed it just so. From it, I can view most of the ranch. Across the pasture, I can see the ducks peacefully paddling on the pond we dug right before hurricane Katrina rolled ashore (several hundred miles to the south of us) and brought enough rain to fill it. Oddly, while other ponds dry up during the droughts of the summer, ours never has. The wonders of nature never cease to amaze me.

Closer in, I see the cows and horses quietly chewing on some of what is left of the green pasture. It’s October, I know the grass will be a scarce commodity soon. They are unaware of the coming cold, seemly content and glad to bask in the less intense sunshine of the cooler weather. A gentle breeze blows my mare’s mane into soft white ruffles against her neck as she dips her head for another mouthful.

Still closer, the chickens and guineas scurry around for bugs and peck in the yard for tasty morsels in front of the old barn. A while back, I hung multicolored bird houses on it along with a sign advertising Brown’s Ice Cream. I’ve never eaten Brown’s ice cream but I like to imagine it’s sweetness on my tongue. It would most definitely be two scoops of Rocky Road. In a sugar cone.

My eyes travel towards the warped “Stop Ahead” sign that my husband found in a ditch, hanging precariously with its upturned corners, right beside the giant five-pointed star I bought at the flea market. I love the contrasts –bright specks of color against the old grey, termite riddled wood; the sagging gutter dipping below the rusted streaks of the otherwise gleaming metal roof. This is the exact image that I have always carried of the perfect barn, even if it does lean a little.

The guineas have become excited and are screeching “come-back! come-back! come-back!” because they have discovered the feed tray I filled for last of my baby chickens, Kate and Campbell. I had placed it on the other side of the porch for them, but now they have scampered off to scratch in the soft soil and treasure hunt. The gluttonous posse quickly empties it of its grains and hop down the steps, expressing their displeasure in a deafening tone because the bottom of the tray was found so quickly.

I haven’t quite mastered guinea-speak although I do understand when they are excited or happy. They don’t seem to have individual personalities either… I kind of lump them all together, gang-like. Not like the chickens at all. I have a Guinea Hood, better yet - a syndicated organization (aka mob) back here. I smile to myself again for the comparison, wondering which of the clan would be considered the Godfather and want his ring kissed.

As they evacuate the porch and I regain my hearing, I notice the birds of the woods singing and chirping. Occasionally a small bird will honor me with expectant looks from the redbud that holds ground next to the porch. I suppose the wild bird feeder is empty because they do not tarry and soon fly away.

The last departure causes me to notice the puff of dusty chafe floating into the sky from the bean threshing going on across the creek. The chafe sparkles in the sunlight like crystals against the perfect blue sky and I can hear the distant purring of the combine.

Emilio crows and shatters the air with noise once again. He is soon answered by Bumble and Pepe’, two of the other roosters. They are shouting from either side of the porch, one trying to outdo the other. Stereo crowing. The thought makes me smile once more.

A molting hen has joined me on the porch. Her normal beauty comprised of speckled plumes has gone the way of fallen leaves… shed feathers onto the coop floor. Soft, velvety feathers are replaced by nakedness atop her back. Her quill pocked skin is pink from the sun. I laugh out loud as she twists her head and stares at me. I imagine her questioning “whatareyoulookingat?” Chickens think like that, you know. All their sentences run together into one word.

I hear the mower start up, so I know my husband has returned from town and is beginning the day’s farm chors. There are fences to finish and grass to cut, you know.

I am reluctant to rise from my seat. This is my paradise. My sanctuary from the rest of the world’s horrors and sorrows. We wake with the sun, work with our hands, tend to the herds and flocks. At night, we go to bed prayerfully hoping that God is pleased with our stewardship of his land and these inhabitants he has entrusted to us.

I am a rancher and happy to be so.