It’s been almost two years since I became a ranch hand. Taking nonstop orders from my husband has been – how shall we say? – a bit of an adjustment. After all, I grew up on this ranch. I knew my way around. I just hadn’t been home a lot lately thanks to the town job, so perhaps I was a little out of date. And it’s not like I questioned his authority. Much.

When I was 6 years old, we got a pair of lambs. My dad built them a special shelter. I petted them, bottle fed them, put on little collars and broke them to lead. I would have slept with them if I could have snuck them past my mother and into the bedroom.

People like to say experience is the best teacher. Growing up on a ranch with a yard full of trees and pastures full of animals willing and able to both insult and injure my body, experience often came in the form of a good wreck.

Runners often rhapsodize about something called an “endorphin high,” which apparently occurs when you punish your body until it begins to crank out its own painkillers in self-defense. As thrilling as that sounds, I usually pass. My lungs are not meant to bleed.

For sake of clarity, in my part of the world, ranchers raise cattle and farmers raise crops. I am not a farmer. My husband can testify that I never will be, no matter how often he is forced to stuff me in a tractor.

A few years ago, my husband and I made a rodeo swing through Idaho that involved starting on the southern end of the state then traveling most of the night to the northern end.

One of the downsides of being a published author is social media. As in, I’m expected to show my face there and shamelessly promote my book. I can handle Twitter; it has ways to filter and sort what you see when you scroll through your news feed.

As spectacular as the past summer was for the cattlemen in our area, it was equally disastrous for the farmers. Their crops suffered from smut and sawflies, hail that knocked down wheat and barley, and excessive rain late in the season that made kernels sprout right in the heads.

Yesterday was a 50-50 day. No, I don't mean it was a so-so kind of day.