The snow has finally arrived. The magical beauty of a perfect line of thick white snow that uniformly falls from the hydro lines, disintegrating away until only a mist of snow hits the ground. I watched this morning as the mist crept in the low of my small valley highlighting the tip of the hill behind it in a baby blue hue showing promise of the day’s sunshine. The smog inched it’s way behind the evergreen trees that stood guarding it as a solid dark grey silhouette, ladled in snow pushing down on the dormant branches until their breaking point. Even in their sleep the branches win as Mother Nature pushes the snow away with a warm winter breeze, like a mother pushing away a lock of hair from her child’s eyes as they dream. Soon the mist covers the hill and only the tall trees creating the front line remain visible, and the mist waits…waits for the sun to push its hard won mystical barrier far away from her warmth and comfort.

I like to think of myself as a “bad news first” kinda girl. I am alluded by the ability to contain my wild feelings, even the struggle to focus my thoughts on the last thing I’ve been told is a challenge (I suspect this is why I am a proud simple-minded follower). In hearing bad news first I can simply forget the thoughts that create the feelings around the voice in front of me and focus on the good news about to consume my brain with lovely, addictive serotonin.

It is in this knowledge that I face December 25th. The overwhelming pressure of family. As a dedicated follower my sole mission (and detriment) in life has been to please people. If I had my way, I would be sitting completely alone covered in sunshine on a soft white sand beach listening to waves lick at my bare toes. The exact opposite of pressure. Jason’s family and friends live in Smithers. A simple 2 hour drive, that may as well be in China! Both of our parent families are alone, both stubborn and willful, both deeply rooted in tradition and extensively skilled in using guilt as their ultimate weapon. The children are old enough now to feel this guilt and follow my direction to strive to contain it if they can’t outright fix it. Their overly dramatic father fits seamlessly into our parent families, being closer to their generation than Jason and I are. Christmas for me is guilt ridden, restless pressure with devastation and disappointment surrounding 1 day of useless, expensive celebration.

I didn’t always feel this way. Like a typical child, Christmas was the only day my brother and I joined forces to outwit time. I remember waking him up in the darkness with a tiny nudge of my small finger, together creeping down the steep wooden stairs, avoiding the creaks in the middle of each step. On our way down we would grab our overfull stockings from the hooks on the edge of the stairs where they hung. If something fell out onto the floor we knew we would be busted. With our arms bursting and our excitement palatable, we dangerously maneuvered the second half of the staircase in complete silent darkness. We locked ourselves in the bathroom, turned on the light and dug in! In the midst of our second layer of goodies, past the japanese oranges that hit the floor without a thought, the door flung open and there stood Gramma Lee. Her short, thin white curls creating a halo of tangles above her squinting blue eyes as she tried to adjust to the light. We froze like deer in the headlights, hoping if we didn’t move she wouldn’t see us. A simple “it’s 3 o’clock in the morning…” was enough to get us back to our warm beds abandoning our loot. Dear gawd I miss that woman. She passed away Dec.26, 1999. Christmas has not been the same since.

The problem with the current daily “countdown to The Day” of dramatics is the fact that the good news is overwhelmingly nowhere to be seen. New Years for me is a time of quiet reflection, a life re-focus and a new awareness. By the time New Years gets here I’m still drowning in chores to clean up the physical and emotional messes made by everyone who didn’t get their expectations met. It’s intensely hard for me to focus on my new year beginning on the right foot while I’m still intrinsically caught up in the drama of a family Christmas. It’s like starting off your “healthy eating” day with an earl grey tea swimming in 18% cream and spoonfuls of sugar to wash down those homemade Christmas cookies.

I like to begin my New Years reflection in November. Putting the cart before the horse so I can concentrate my sights on the good news at the end of the Christmas schedule. By December 1st my resolutions are on paper! I enjoyed my last years resolution of speaking about my Dad to my kids. This has been wholly healing for me and I intend to continue this work and improve on the simple short stories to include pictures this year. Maybe by this time next year I can look at and process the cards we received at his funeral.

My other continuing resolution centers on this business. Setting limitations, focusing on whats important and not giving myself away (emotionally or physically) in the process. Specifically I will begin January with yet another new way to complete my invoices. The Google sheets was a nice stepping off point that proved to simply be too labor intensive. Trying to delegate this task was an absolute “no go!”. I am going to try Simply Accounting with the hope that the computer will be able pick up the work I need delegated, automatically creating spreadsheets and invoices.

The resolution that I’m most worried about (and most determined to make habit) is to hold on to me. To live life. I will ground myself in quiet, eat raw food I feel good about, learn a ton of new things, go new places, spend more time with my horses and generally let others own their own needs.  As I am swamped in feeling guilt, pressure and anxiety, I look forward to January 1st. A new year’s day, the day I selfishly book next year’s Christmas, to get away….simply get away….far, far away.

“A woman is like a tea bag – you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water”                                      Eleanor Roosevelt

Yes, the Smith women are a force to be reckoned with. My Grandfather taught the girls to be strong both mentally and physically. My Grandmother taught them to be dramatic. Sometimes you never know which trait is raising it’s monstrous head…you simply duck before it hits you.

Loma Linda is the physical rock of the Smith family. Her strength doesn’t deceive with dramatics, it simply stands solid in fact, aging with silent grace, grateful for another season, nurturing it’s growing flock and warmly embracing the change that comes with it. Without question Loma Linda Ranch is the essence that all of us strive to emulate.

The un-holy anger of “The Beast” was no match for The Smith Ranch named Loma Linda. In typical female fashion we silence the might of “The Wolf Pack” who protected her and we celebrate the strength of the “woman” she is. The fire burned every living thing in it’s path around the small inlet to it’s mouth where it then followed the creek that runs behind the tiny log cabin. It changed course at that junction simply due to the massive guards put in place by her Southside neighbors and friends. You can see where the fire tried to jump the water as it burned trails through the trees and engulfed the fields before attempting to jump the enormous banks of dirt pushed there to protect the guard around old Loma Linda. The evidence of the fight that ended on the soil of my legacy is humbling, inspiring and devastating.

The fascinating way the fire burned…it wasn’t your typical raging madman consuming everything…it was sneaky…twisting death trails around wild blueberry bushes until it gained strength on the crisp, dry bark of it’s chosen prey. The spinning flames ate the skin of the tree and then bit deep into the tissue until the base was no longer able to support the seventy years of growth above ground, the majesty of the aspens collapsed taking the fire with them in search of it’s next meal. The flames discovered the open wound at the vulnerable base and it turned in excited circles to devour the aspens flesh as the rings of the tree suffocate and die. The thousand year old root system of the tree stays still and safe in it’s bed of soil, waiting for spring to pop up new shoots and show it’s resilience in defiance of The Beast. As the fire moved swiftly around the property it left a pattern of black scales over everything like a rat snake creeping fluidly through the newly fallen golden leaves from the unaffected tree tops. Like the way the black wing feathers of a crow shimmer and turn blue just for an instant in the sunlight, the scales of the black snake glint off the grey day light in triumph.

No masculine lunatic exposes itself in The Beast’s movements, only a gentle dancing as it leads with the spoiled attitudes of royalty. Like a Disney movie princess in a seductive evening gown shimmering deep blue and moving with a luxury that only the very rich can afford, then there is a rotating twirl of pure white smoke that engulfs the sparkle to magically become the hard scales of a vicious and demanding murderer. The feminine way the fire burned proves that Nature is the mother of a daughter we call The Beast. Woman against woman never wins. Loma Linda won…but she needed the help of the “Wolves”. The “Wolf Pack” in all it’s masculine glory took on Goliath and then stepped away into the shadows to protect their own families to let Loma Linda shine like she single handedly won. Like a true knight in shining armor the wolves saved the princess and then steps back to watch her shine. Like all good battles, the aftermath is another story.

The after math battle to save the roads and fields from spring flooding is still an egg waiting to be fertilized. The paperwork and government loops will consume our minds over the winter as the “fetus” grows. The hard, exhausting, labor intensive work will begin as the next demon approaches the Ranch on the wings of a new season. But this time we will be ready.