Legacy

Hear more from Cara Stolen on this episode of the C+C podcast: Carrying the Burden with Her.

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It’s cold. Arguably too cold to barbecue. But I’m breastfeeding a baby who gets a tummy ache when I eat dairy or soy or anything acidic, and I’m tired of eating soup, and steak sounded good, so here I am, wrapped in a down parka that resembles a sleeping bag, grilling steaks in 20-degree weather. And not just any steaks, either. The good steaks. The birthday/anniversary/client-we-need-to-impress/something-to-celebrate steaks. Rib-eyes.

Because he’s 6, my son Royce asks for a hamburger instead.

I don’t take kindly to dinnertime criticism and have a low bar for “I don’t like this” shenanigans. But I’m in a good mood (we’re having rib-eyes, remember?), so instead of reprimanding him, I tease him a little instead.

“You’d rather have a $3 hamburger than a $60 steak?” I say, ruffling his hair as I pass him on my way back inside, the smell of the grill following me.

I put the baby down for a nap (or maybe for the night? … at 4 months I’m honestly never sure) while the steaks rest, then slice them thinly against the grain. My husband gets home from work as I plate the perfectly pink meat with roasted potatoes, bread, and salad. We sit down to dinner and Levi compliments me on the steaks, which makes me laugh, and recount Royce’s hamburger request.

Levi grins and elbows him a little. “That’s good you like hamburger, buddy. Someday you’ll show up here to raid our freezer and I’ll tell you to help yourself to all the burger you want. I’ll just be sure to remind you to leave the steaks for me.”

We all laugh, but Royce ducks his chin in embarrassment and picks at the steak on his plate. “Nah, he won’t need to steal meat from our freezer,” I say with a wink. “That’s why we gave him his own cow. He’ll have his own herd and a full freezer of his own.”

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Levi and I signed on the dotted line(s) of our first USDA cow loan when he was 28 and I was 25—a low interest, “beginning farmer/rancher,” loan from the government to buy 16 bred Black Angus heifers of our very own. I was newly pregnant with our first child, and as we signed here and initialed there at the direction of our loan officer we exchanged sly, hopeful smiles. We were starting our legacy, in more ways than one.

I was terrified to tell my parents, who pay cash for everything and paid off their property before they reached the end of the amortization schedule, who planned and conceived me in their mid-to-late 30s, about both the loan and the baby. They’d started contributing to my education fund well before I started elementary school, and when it came time to apply for and choose a college they encouraged me to look at study abroad programs, research fellowships, and academic rankings. It’s safe to say when they sent me off to Seattle University they didn’t expect me to graduate early so I could get married or fall back on my high school bookkeeping courses as a career.

From an early age I understood that while my parents believed I could be anything I wanted to be, they—my dad, especially—expected “anything” to be something, well, great. A research scientist or a college professor. A pharmacist perhaps. An environmental advocate of some sort maybe. But probably not a work-at-home mom. Definitely not a work-at-home mom who was in debt to the government.

My parents are kind, hard working, and community-minded individuals. They were and are excellent parents who made enormous sacrifices to ensure I, their only child, had the best start in life they could give me.

They just didn’t want to see their efforts—their legacy—go to waste.

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For Royce’s 5th birthday, Levi and I gave him his favorite cow and her calf. After watching him bounce up and down on the seat of the feed truck with excitement every time he saw her the winter he was 4, we decided he was ready to start learning some very basic lessons about work ethic, caretaking, and money management. We decided 5 would be the “cow birthday” for our kids.

While the gift would be mostly symbolic—his cow would stay with the rest of our herd—it gave him the opportunity to make his own “business decisions” and set money aside for his future. Would he sell his calf or keep his calf? If he kept his calf, how would he pay us back for his share of hay, pasture rent, and vaccine? Or would he sell both his cow and his calf and buy a dirt bike with his profit? He would be in the driver’s seat. The only stipulation was this: if he was going to own his own cow, he’d be required to show up and help when and where he was needed, whether he wanted to or not.

When his birthday rolled around I pulled out my DSLR, walked out into the pasture, and snapped a photo of 404, her calf trailing behind her. Then I framed it, wrapped it, and watched with nervous anticipation as he opened it. Would he understand what we were giving him? Would he care? Could his 5-year-old brain comprehend the years of hard work and sacrifice wrapped up in that 5x7 picture frame?

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On Christmas Eve this year, after my mom and I stuffed stockings and my dad and Levi ate Santa’s cookies, my mom handed me a gift.

“An early Christmas present,” she said.

I tore the flap of the envelope on the card, my hands shaking a little. My mom’s familiar cursive-print hybrid filled the card, but as I read through her note my eyes were drawn to one simple phrase: “We’re so proud of you and the life you’ve built.”

Feeling my eyes fill, I looked up at my mom, who nodded. “It’s true,” she said. “You guys have worked so hard and accomplished so much at such a young age. We’re so proud. We love you both.”

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In the eight years since we borrowed those USDA funds we’ve turned 16 bred heifers into a herd of 75 cows. We’ve pinched pennies and worked long hours and made loan payments by the skin of our teeth some years. We’ve learned to be good stewards of the land, good neighbors and friends to our fellow ranchers, and good teammates and partners in marriage and business. We’ve created a life we’re proud of.

One we hope to pass on to our kids.

But as I wash the steak knives and put away the lone leftover rib-eye, I wonder if it’s a life they’ll want. While Royce announced at his preschool graduation he wanted to be a “rancher like my dad” when he grew up and was thrilled to receive his very own cow, he wasn’t all that excited about having to help feed cows last Sunday morning. And though he told us more than a few times this winter he’d like to sell his cow and buy a snowmobile, he also asked me on the way home from school last week if I thought 404 would have a heifer this year so he could keep her calf and grow his herd. I try to take the pendulum swings of his interest in stride because he’s 6. He will change his mind about the path his life will take about a thousand times before he’s twenty, and maybe a few more after that.

He might head off to college and study to become a doctor or a teacher. He might decide to build houses like his Papa or operate equipment like his Grandpa. He might fall in love with a big city girl and live the kind of life I thought I would have.

I don’t know who or what my kids will become any more than I know what the world will look like in thirty years when they’re our age. Even if Royce stands by his preschool proclamation and follows in our footsteps, will our pasture land get covered up with houses? Will our stock and irrigation water be diverted to water people’s lawns? Will people (or our own kids) stop eating meat altogether?

Will our hard work, our sacrifice, our legacy mean anything?

As hard as it is for me to face, the reality is that the dream we have of ranching alongside our adult children (and their children, eventually) may stay just exactly that: a dream.

I spent a lot of years feeling like I fell short of my parents’ dreams for my life, but what I realized on Christmas Eve was this: it was never about the path I chose in life. All they ever wanted was to give me the opportunity to choose a life I loved.

Our legacy is bigger than our cow herd or acreage. It’s our work ethic, and our willingness to both help and be helped by our neighbors. It’s the kindness and consideration we show our animals and each other. It’s showing our kids what it looks like to live a life they love, even if that life ends up looking different than ours.

And it’s the hamburger (or rib-eyes) we’ll have in the freezer to share with them when they come home.

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Cara Stolen is a writer, an adventurer, and a semi-professional travel sports mom. Born and raised in rural Washington state, she and her husband, Levi, raise black angus beef cattle alongside their three kids. A life-long runner and outdoor enthusiast, Cara loves starting her day with the sunrise, climbing and backpacking in the Pacific Northwest, and sharing her love of the wilderness with her kids. She believes words have the power to buoy us through the hardest of times, and hopes to make other mothers feel seen with hers.

Photo by Hailey Haberman Photography.

This essay was first published on Coffee + Crumbs.

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