Out on the Ranch with Papa's Buffalo

I just got back from four days on the outskirts of Oklahoma City.  Ken, Sky, and I went to see my Nana who is nearly 90 and alone after losing Papa three years ago.  Her heart isn't doing so well, and we want to make it out to see her as often as we can.  

We stayed at the Ranch that Nana and Papa built over many decades in the "show barn" they turned into a monument to their love and travels, with trinkets from all over the world on every table, mantle, and counter top for Sky to discover.  

We rode Papa's medical chair lift up and down the stairs for entertainment. 

We hung tight with the Buffalo that were his babies and the bulls that were a large part of his livelihood.  

The stillness out there is soothing in a way I forgot, the creaking of the screen door.  We were in bed each night by 10 p.m. with no internet or tv to keep us up, and still, after 10 hours of sleep, we found ourselves sinking into the silence, drifting off mid-afternoon in the heat.  There was dust and hay.  Both of my boys were snotty upon leaving, and my eyes were fire engine red.

I did everything in my power to eat as I usually would, but my gluten-free pescetarian diet was an anomaly there.  I ordered a salad with no chicken on it which came dutifully doused in bird and a spinach salad with shrimp I imagined would be grilled that came double-dipped and deep-fried in batter.  I ended up with a bun-less veggie burger and a pile of french fries two out of four nights.  But it didn't matter at all.  

Seeing Nana's reaction to Sky's shrieks of joy in a fancy restaurant and her comical consternation at his relocating her knick knacks all around the house was enough.  I wish Papa could have been there.  He would have loved it all: the chair lift, the shrieks, the kids from the city with hay fever, and the chaos of an almost-two year old repeatedly asking to revisit the tractor. 

Sometimes food doesn't matter.  It just doesn't.