Exposure to the Elements

The rain did not give way, pelting us relentlessly. I had stopped dancing, seeking the comfort - and dryness - of the wagons finally. Every now and again I watched out the flaps to see shadows skirting the rows and clearings. They all looked the same, like charcoal sketches crafted out of strokes of gray. I wondered why they didn't all just hide out in their wagons, and wondered too, where my Brave Warrior was. Slowly I began to realize this was not home on the ranch anymore, where we crowded into the ranch houses and whiled away our time. The occasional foray out into the miserable weather occurred just to tend the animals, and was done as swiftly as possible before the dash back into the warmth and camaraderie of family and friends. Here, livestock couldn't be left alone, wagons just didn't sit like houses on flat ground, meals didn't magically appear in the nonexistent back kitchen of the wagon. The elements were lived and breathed within, lived within, and sometimes even conquered. Even more so once the bosk moved.

I had seen my share of the rain, felt the ensuing mud trying to capture me hort by hort, creeping up my legs and trying to keep me in place. There had been a moment when I even wished it would just suck me under, and it probably could have. I had become restless in the wagon, listening to the sounds that echoed within and without. I started to wonder where my Brave Warrior was? Was He out battling the rain and the whipping winds? Coaxing animals into place, keeping them safe, helping others with their own safety and troubles, mindless of His own? He must be soaked and exhausted and wanting nothing more than a hot drink, a dry bed and a warm fur. I had all of those. But He didn't. I started poking through the packed up belongings, just a little bit, so as not to have to repack everything in sight if we should start moving. I found a pair of boots, brand new looking boots. The smell of leather was almost an assault in the damp and humid confines of the wagon. They were so stiff, clearly not having been worn, that even the edge were crisp and clean, the stitching as straight and perfect as when it must have first been sewn. I found a small tin of thick greasy oil, or something like it. It seemed the perfect ingredient for softening up leather and I got to work, rubbing tiny circles into the stiff hide. I started feeling better, or at least a bit more productive.

I got lost in the fine details of work, as I am apt to do at times. I had hardly noticed the lack of sound on the canvas. I hadn't even realized how long I had the oil lamp lit. I realized my stomach was uncomfortable about the same time that I was fighting to keep my eyes open. And then all hands were called to help sling....mud.