Real Ranch Life. Real Marriage. Real Mess

I’ve debated many times about writing this story, but for the sake of comic relief — and maybe a little posterity — I’m going to give you some real-life ranch truth. Or maybe real-life marriage truth. Hard to say, since the two are tangled together so tightly in our daily lives. The lines between wife, partner, and managing partner get blurred — heck, they downright disappear most days.

When you work for yourself and with your husband, roles aren’t separate. They’re layered, messy, and ever-shifting. I always tell Brandon, “I’m wearing my wife hat right now — and she doesn’t ask for much, so please be patient. The managing partner hat? She asks a lot. And she can be kind of bossy.”

So, earlier in June, we invited a longtime customer couple to come tour our ranch. We’ve been wanting to do ranch tours for years, but liability always pulled us back. That said, we’ve got something fun coming this fall — a customer appreciation day. More on that later.

Anyway, this was the first time we were officially welcoming someone to our ranch who wasn’t family or a friend. And me? I’m a detail person. Task-oriented. I love planning logistics down to the tiniest stuff. I had this day ready.

Brandon, on the other hand, is a kind-hearted fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants kind of guy. The morning of the visit, he decided our guests might get thirsty — so he was going to drive to town (a 30-minute drive one way) for water and ice. I had the house cleaned, the coffee brewed, and plenty left to do — but I bit my tongue and sent him off.

Now flash back to earlier that week. You know how every couple has that one task — the one partner asks, the other forgets? Sometimes they forget entirely, sometimes they forget until it’s too late. Gender doesn’t matter — it just happens.

I had gone through our walk-in freezer and found boxes of dog bones I’d labeled and saved. But the freezer was full, and it was time to pitch them. I asked Brandon to take them to the bone pile — our designated spot for deadstock or discarded meat, far enough from the house to keep away predators. I reminded him. Several times.

Guess what didn’t happen?

Now fast-forward to the morning of the tour. I planned to start by showing our newly cleaned shop and walk-in freezer. I was having Brandon meet us at the house so we could drive the loop. I went up to the shop early to check on things — threw open the doors, and boom. That awful, unmistakable, rotting smell hit me like a truck.

He hadn’t dumped the bones.

I had already called him mid water-and-ice errand to see how much longer he’d be gone, since I needed 20 minutes of kid-free time to get myself ready. Turns out he had made a detour to pick up his brother to help with ranch work.

So now I had 30 minutes until our guests arrived, and I had two boxes of bloody bones baking in the June heat. I couldn’t leave them. I couldn’t just close the door and pretend the smell wasn’t there. So I did the only thing I could: I handled it.

I lifted the first box — and blood poured down my front. Not a drip. A pour. I screamed. Not a dainty sigh — I screamedon that hill. Got the second box, loaded both onto the ATV, grabbed a box cutter, and told my two children (ages six and eight) that I’d be right back.

Drove out to the bone pile. Sliced open every bag, dumped the bones, packed the plastic back into the boxes (because I’m not about to let it blow across the prairie), and tore back toward the house.

As I crested the hill, I saw it: Our children — our sweet, happy, unaware children — were the official welcoming committee for our guests. Smiling and waving like tiny ranch hosts. Right behind them, Brandon’s truck pulled in.

Meanwhile, my ATV was still loaded with the bloody boxes. No time to dispose of them. I shoved them off on the hill and gunned it down toward the house.

I was hoping to sneak in and rinse off — but there was no time. I stripped off the blood-soaked clothes, threw on something clean, and walked back out.

Brandon, all smiles, loaded his cooler of water and ice onto the bike. I caught him at the door. “I’m so mad at you,” I whispered fiercely. “Those bloody bones have been sitting in the shop for a week and now it reeks. We’ll have to move that to the end of the tour.”

His reply? “Kill me after this is done,” and off he went.

And, of course, he gave the most warm-hearted, engaging tour. He is that guy. Friendly, loving, genuine. And as we rode across the pastures, my fire turned to a simmer… then a smolder… then nothing.

By the time we got back to the house, everything was right again.

It takes a special kind of couple to live, work, and breathe together day in and day out.

And somehow, amongst all of it — we have it.

P.S. While riding around on the bikes, my daughter — who had witnessed my pre-tour meltdown when I had to run back for the box cutter — decided to let our customers in on the moment. She casually informed them, “My mommy is furious at my daddy.”

So, another story for another time… but apparently, we need to have a little chat about what things you tell people and what things you don’t. Because that girl? She’s an open book.