My husband, Steve, and I believe capitalism motivates innovation. We raise and market Montana grassfed beef and lamb and try to make a profit at our business.

We also use fuel and don’t have any plans to quit.

We believe in paying our share, too. We pay property tax, income tax, vehicle licenses, and fuel tax, among others.

So when I attended the December meeting of the Montana Board of Oil and Gas Conservation, I became enlightened, to say the least.

Men in shiny black Armani suits giddily bragged on their profit margin of 33% per barrel of oil.

Meanwhile, Pondera County commissioners have been squeezing every penny from the county budget. They have moved cash from across the budget to public safety because the sheriff’s office continues to field more calls, investigate more substance abuse, and ticket more overweight heavy trucks. Commissioner Cyndi Johnson said they expect more trespass cases soon because trucks and camper trailers will find their way to private open spaces. County commissioners and other officials plan to spend more money traveling to Richland County to research potential ways to mitigate even more impacts.

So the Pondera County library, among other county services, has lost a significant portion of its funding to public safety.

I don’t think anyone would disagree that public safety is the top priority for a community.

But I don’t think local residents — both property owners and renters — should subsidize an industry that brags about 33% profits. More than 118 million barrels of oil have been pumped in Richland County alone since 2005. The price of oil has varied, but do the math assuming a nice round $100 per barrel. The profits are staggering.

Commissioners in Pondera and Teton counties have the authority to impose impact fees on oil companies. Other counties have imposed an impact fee based on heavy truck weights, but the Pondera County commissioners are reluctant to do that because resident farmers often use heavy semi-trucks, too.

But the roads are not damaged by a few truckloads of grain harvest. Our roads can handle heavy loads once in a while. The roads are damaged because of the countless trips by oil company trucks every day.

Our schools, sanitation, and possibly water quality are negatively impacted, too. The impacts are multiplied because oil development comes suddenly, operates for a relatively short time and extracts non-renewable resources.

Pondera and Teton Counties expect to eventually receive increased income to cover the additional cost of impacts to their communities from income taxes levied on oil companies.

However, they will not receive nearly as much during the first 18 months of oil production as they could have because our illustrious Montana legislature gave oil companies an 18-month tax holiday for horizontally-drilled wells. Instead of paying an effective 9% income tax on profits, oil companies will pay 0.5% tax.

To understand the impacts of this tax holiday, look at Richland County .

In the last 18 months, approximately 437,600 barrels of oil have been pumped from about 135 new wells in Richland County. During that time, the price of oil has fluctuated between $90 and $120 a barrel, but assume an average of $105. Gross income from these new wells would be about $45,948,000. A 33% profit equals $15,162,840 and a 9% state income tax on that profit would be $1,364, 655. Each county’s portion of the state tax varies slightly, but it hovers around 45% so, with a 9% state tax rate on profits, Richland County would receive $614,095. Instead, during the 18-month tax holiday, Richland County receives about $34, 117.

Not even enough to hire a single law enforcement officer.

County commissioners could solve this inequity to their residents by imposing impact fees that directly address the impacts.

When a company applies for a permit to explore for oil, the company should pay the equivalent of a year’s salary for a teacher, a public safety officer and a sanitarian, plus pay a fee for each truck mile on a county road.

When an oil company decides to drill for potential oil, a part of the cost of business should be another year’s worth of the same fees. If oil is pumped, the company should pay those fees for the life of the well.

Residents should not subsidize a for-profit business.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise grassfed cattle and sheep at the Graham Ranch near Conrad, Montana.

My husband, Steve, and I are chasing yearlings and shearing sheep so it must be springtime.

A county road runs through the Graham Ranch and, when the temperatures warm up, tasty morsels of brome grass peak through last year’s old grass. As the road climbs a steep grade, the builders used quite a lot of fill. Our barbed-wire fence stands at the bottom of the fill so that tasty brome grass grows tantalizingly off limits to the cattle. Even during mild winters, snow piles on that slope, breaking wires and pulling up posts.

Yearling calves remind me of teenagers — always hungry, curious and ready a the drop of a hat for another adventure.

This combination leads to a lot of wire stretching and fence staples. We keep a 1964 Chevy loaded with all of our fencing necessities and I think the sheriff’s office has Steve’s cell phone number on speed dial.

The calves seem to know what they are doing. As we herd them down the road to the gate, they trot along in a bunch, sometimes kicking up their heels, sometimes pausing to savor one more bite. Of course, the grass inside the pasture grows abundantly, but this forbidden forage beckons.

So I make a trip to the co-op for another roll of barbed wire and some staples.

The sheep feel springtime, too.

During the cold winter months, the flock will move slowly as the sheep graze, bunched together against the wind and cold. But when I open the corral gate and point them to the pasture at this time of year, they are off on a trot. During the day, they roam over the entire pasture, nibbling on green sprouts and soaking up the sun.

The shorn ewes especially like that warm sun.

Steve and I shear a few sheep every day and then go about our other jobs. We have more than half of them done, but the push is on. The ewes will start dropping their lambs soon.

This year, I have been shearing the ewes’ bellies and then Steve shears the rest. I’m slow and he is fast so usually we are both done at the same time. We trim feet and vaccinate at the same time. Then I pack the wool in big canvas bags while he takes care of the clippers.

Shearing stretches every muscle and the wool covers us in dirt and grime. After shearing a few ewes, we both straighten up gingerly, feeling the burn throughout our bodies. When I pack the wool, I stomp on it just like traditional wine makers crush grapes with their bare feet. I can feel muscles in my thighs and hips that I never feel at any other time of year. The craziest part of shearing is that I miss it if we skip a day. I must be feeling the same rush that joggers describe as a runner’s high.

I don’t think Steve gets the shearer’s high.

He even expects to be paid. I suggested payment in the form of ibuprofen, but he prefers medicine from a square bottle, imported directly from Lynchburg, Tennessee.

So after I stop at the co-op, I make a trip to the liquor store.

Aaah, the rites of spring.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise Montana natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

Steve was gone. Most stories like this one start that way. It could have been worse, though. I could have been gone instead and missed out.

As this year’s president of East Slope Back Country Horsemen, my husband, Steve, attended the state convention in Billings. I stayed at the Graham Ranch to take care of the calving.

So far, all of the cows and most of the heifers had calved without our assistance and the weather was warm. When I checked in the morning, everybody looked fine. But the evening check revealed a heifer calving down by the creek. I walked up behind her as she lay on the creek bank and could see two feet and a nose appearing.

It could have been worse. The calf could have been coming in the wrong position or could have been too big for the heifer‘s pelvis.

Calves need to come into this world just as divers hit the water — with front feet and nose first. I moved the heifer away from the creek, gave the pair a half an hour and checked on them again. The calf was in the same position, no progress. The calf was too big for the heifer’s pelvis.

It could have been worse. I could have not had a good horse.

I ran to gather my 13-year-old son, Will, and trusty Freckles, our 6-year-old gelding. Will waited at the corral to open the gate at the right time while Freckles and I brought the heifer in. The heifer lay down on the creek bank again and would not get up.

It could have been worse. I could have not been able to pull the calf out right there.

I looped my rope around the calf’s feet and tugged. I could not get the calf out. I dallied the rope around the saddle horn and let Freckles pull. Nothing. Because of the creek bank, I could not position the horse to pull in the perfect direction so I pulled and tugged, moved Freckles a bit and let him pull again. Over and over, we pulled until the calf slipped halfway out and bawled.

It could have been worse. The calf could have been hip-locked.

Sometimes, a calf needs to rotate 90 degrees so the wide part of his hips can slip through the wide part of the heifer’s pelvis. I tugged again. The calf was hip-locked.

It could have been worse. My horse could have wandered off.

I tugged on the calf’s feet to rotate him, but he was stuck. I grabbed the rope to dally around the saddle horn. Freckles had wandered off.

It could have been worse. The heifer could have been in the creek.

I pulled. The cow pushed. She pushed so hard, she rolled over and landed in the creek. I jumped in to grab the calf’s nose before it slipped underwater. Now I could rotate the calf and hold his head up, but I could not pull at the same time. But soon, Will found me. He had seen the riderless horse and came running. We took turns pulling on the rope and holding the calf’s head above water. The calf sighed. The cow moaned.

It could have been worse. The calf could have been dead.

Finally, Will pulled hard and the calf came out. It was not breathing. Will gave it CPR, but the calf was dead.

It could have been worse. We could have had another heifer in trouble.

I had seen another heifer straining with her tail held up, a clear sign of impending birth. Will and I left the first heifer in the creek to rest while we looked for the second heifer. She was still straining and acting strange. I caught Freckles, and we got the second heifer to the corral.

It could have been worse. We could have had a barn fire.

As we moved the second heifer near the corral gate, both of us smelled smoke. The orphan lambs had knocked the heat lamp into the straw. While Will moved the lambs to the horse trailer, I dowsed the smoldering straw. Steve called about then to check on how things were going. Then we went to work on the second heifer.

It could have been worse. I could have had to call a friend for help.

I reached in to find a head coming, but no front feet. Try as hard as I could, I could not wrap my hands around those legs. I ran through my long mental list of friends to call in an emergency. Thales came quickly.

It could have been worse. I could have had to call the vet in the middle of the night.

Thales and I tried to reach those feet until we both had throbbing, numb arms. I called the vet. The calf had been dead long enough so the heifer’s uterus was contracting. The vet worked until sweat beaded across his forehead. He got the calf out in pieces.

Both heifers lived through their ordeals.

It could have been worse. I could have some dull, boring office job.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise Montana natural, grassfed lamb and beef at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

Our latest experience with the health care system leaves me surprised by the similarities between our country’s health care finances and the commodity livestock industry.

Traditional cattle producers work hard all year to grow their calves, and then haul them to the auction where they take whatever the highest bidder offers. Commodity producers are price-takers from a top-down oligopoly where prices are dictated by a few beef packers. That’s the simplified version and lots of details create various strategies to increase profit, but essentially three global beef packers establish prices with very little transparency.

As several health care billing executives explained to me, our federal health insurance — Medicare — along with a few private health insurance companies establish what hospitals will receive for various procedures with very little transparency. Hospitals, like commodity livestock producers, use various strategies to increase profit.

Before Christmas, the doctor recommended that my husband, Steve, receive a pacemaker. His surgery was scheduled for mid-January. We self-insure so I was more than curious about how much this simple procedure would cost.

Just before Christmas, I asked the hospital billing center. They did not know, but would get back to me. Their best estimate at the time was somewhere around $50,000, if everything went okay.

Just after New Year’s, the billing person called back with a better estimate, but it did not include the doctor’s bill or the price increases that went into effect Jan. 1: $93,000 and change. The pacemaker would cost $35,000, the procedure would be $38,000 and they would need about $20,000 for miscellaneous supplies “like gloves and things.”

But the billing person emphasized that this was a low-ball estimate.

“Medicare reduced its rates so we do not know how our prices will increase,” she explained.

“Why don’t you just charge whatever it costs. Every good business manager knows costs. Don’t you?” I replied.

“The costs vary based on what Medicare reimburses,” she answered.

I think we must have gone to very different business schools. The cost of pacemakers, leads, hourly wages for staff, electricity, plastic gloves and beds do not change based on what someone will pay just like the cost of harvesting hay, grazing land payments, taxes, fuel and minerals do not change based on what somebody offers to pay for our calves.

“How much will Blue Cross/Blue Shield pay?” I continued.

“It depends on your policy. Each policy pays a different amount,” she explained.

“How do you budget?”

“We don’t. We send a bill for the full amount to the insurance company and they tell us what percentage of the bill they will pay us,” she replied.

Steve and I decided to shop around. The billing person helped us immensely by providing the codes for Steve’s particular procedure.

Steve started with the internet and found the exact same procedure cost $13,000 in India. Doctors who graduated from U.S. medical schools would implant the exact same pacemaker. The doctor would receive $1,000, the pacemaker cost $8,000 and the hospital would get $4,000.

For the $80,000 difference, we could afford to fly to India. Maybe my mom would come to the ranch to take care of the kids while we were gone. Heck, we could load up the kids and take them, too. Maybe one of our good neighbors would feed the animals for us while we engaged in medical tourism.

I shopped some more.

Medicare would reimburse $30,000 for Steve’s procedure at the new 2012 reduced rates. I found their 2012 reimbursement rates on the internet.

A friend who works in the insurance industry recommended adding 20% to the Medicare rates to estimate private insurance reimbursements.

I called another regional hospital. The helpful billing person had a hard and fast cost for me within an hour: $40,000 plus the doctor’s charge.

By then, we needed to make a decision. Steve was scheduled for surgery at 6:30 the next morning.

I called the first hospital.

“Will you match $40,000?”

Within 30 minutes, financial officers had matched the competing hospital’s bid.

To understand the commodity cattle industry, review the preceding conversations, only substitute high quality beef for high quality medical care, and substitute price bids from beef packers for price estimates from insurance companies. Substitute cattle producers for hospitals. Instead choosing to fly to India for health care, cattle producers choose to haul their cattle to various auctions.

Steve received excellent, compassionate care from the hospital staff and is back to being his normal, Energizer Bunny self. Knowing we self-insure, Steve’s doctor did not send a bill to us. The hospital billing people tried hard to find answers for me.

But our health financing system, much like the commodity livestock system, is broken. The people on the ground of both industries continue to fight an uphill battle because they care. Thank goodness. We provide the best beef and receive the best medical care in the world. We just don’t know how much we will be paid.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

Helga calved! I realize the entire world did not pause to celebrate this amazing feat, but I did.

Helga is our brown Swiss-Jersey milk cow so now that she calved, our family gets to share sweet, thick cream and tasty milk with her calf, Louis L’Amour.

Only Helga and Louis never learned to share.

I expected Helga to have a calf in October. The days passed, Helga waddled across the pasture. November came. Helga spent some time with the rest of the cattle, but chose to graze by herself a lot of the time. Cows meander away from the rest of the herd when they are ready to calve so we hoped her time was close. Of course, this was Helga so we weren’t sure.

Helga is not your ordinary doe-eyed, docile milk cow. She doesn’t stand quietly as I milk and she doesn’t chew her cud.

Helga bellows, kicks and drools.

Even the other cattle don’t particularly like Helga. They tolerate her, like an older brother tolerates his little sister, but they don’t like her.

So when Helga stood off to the edge of the pasture, we didn’t know whether we were observing social ostrasization or prepartum preparations.

Finally, one day after a chilling snowstorm, a small black being wobbled to his feet beside Helga. My husband, Steve, and I walked out to check on the little fellow. Helga allowed us near and we considered the possibility that she might have mellowed.

Then Helga charged straight over the top of her calf at Steve, shaking her head and bawling her motherhood.

Apparently, Helga’s personality is permanent.

We gave the new pair a day to bond, and then put both of them in the corral.

Time to milk. I was elated. Milking offers a rhythm to my life and provides the most sumptuous addition to my morning coffee that I’ve ever tasted. I’m addicted.

I stepped into the corral.

Helga put me over the fence.

I finally managed to put her in the milking chute by using my stick. I didn’t need to hit her, just wave it in front of her. In a previous life, Helga must have been beaten because she respects sticks.

Most of the time.

The next day, I brought my stick with me to strengthen my argument. Helga argued me up into the feed manger with her horns.

After a week or so, Helga, Louis and I had a production agreement, but Louis collected almost all the profits, leaving me a pint for our land and labor investments. This was not a long-term, sustainable plan.

Now, I milk in the morning and let Louis have the daytime production. He and his mother separate in the evening, leaving the nighttime manufacturing for my family. I think Helga enjoys the relief from Louis’ continual demands for food, too. At least, she trots right in to the adjoining corral each evening.

By morning, she is ready to mother again. I turn her into Louis’s corral, let him nurse for a couple of minutes and then coax Helga into the milking chute. Louis can suck out in two minutes what takes me 15 minutes to strip from Helga. I’m pretty sure that Steve and I could make a million dollars if we could turn Louis’s sucking talents into a shop-vac.

Meanwhile, I’ll add a little more cream to my coffee and raise a toast to my Helga.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

My husband, Steve, and I stepped out the door, noticed a bit of a breeze and picked up a few rocks to carry in our pockets. In fact, we have been stepping out the door and picking up rocks to carry for the last three weeks. We were not sure everyone would notice our gentle breeze so we jotted down a few of the events that we’ve seen on blustery days.

You Know It Might Be a Breezy Day in Montana if:

1. The used tractor tires that hold down the barn roof go flying.

2. A 1500-pound round bale clears three barbed-wire fences, only coming to rest at a post on the fourth fence.

3. Fence staples that hold all four-strands of wire pop from the posts.

4. A horse standing with his face to the wind has a shadow that looks like he is running.

5. You are traveling 70 mph on the county road and a tumbleweed passes you.

6. A rock cracks your windshield, even though you did not pass a car.

7. You stack a pyramid of round bales around your house so your roof stays on.

8. You wear ski goggles to feed your livestock to keep the hay out of your eyes.

9. The anemometer at the airport blows away.

10. Your hat blows off and you find it two coulees to the east.

11. You strap a bungee cord to your tractor seat and set a log chain on the floor mat to hold them down.

12. The barbed-wire cuts a fencepost in half.

13. Three cows and one wheel line sprinkler line up in a row. The cows spray like the sprinkler is on in January.

14. The barn roof shingles look like snowfall.

15. The wire gate in the west pasture is shaped like a C.

16. You find a grain bin tangled up about ¼-mile from the road and you don’t own a grain bin.

17. Your neighbors look out at their garage and find only the concrete foundation left.

18. You parked the concession trailer next to the shop, but find its siding sliding down the driveway.

19. Horse biscuits are piled on the leeward side of the barn.

20. You need to stake down your heavy wooden mangers so they don‘t blow over and smash lambs.

21. News reports that would bring FEMA running to southern and eastern states only provide interesting conversation at the local café.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

This fall has offered up some difficult events at the Graham Ranch. Nothing dire like some of my extended family has faced and my kids are healthy, but difficult none the less. My husband, Steve, and I have no control over these events. Our only choice is how we react to them.

I thought long and hard about my reaction. I decided I have four choices.

I could become a victim, choosing to lay down and whine, like a dog offering her belly in submission.

I could become a hypocrite. I could benefit from others’ accepting these events while I insist on NIMBY — Not In My Back Yard.

I could strike with bitter revenge. The prime example of this choice is Jon Marvel, the founder of Western Watersheds Project. For more than 40 years, Marvel has sought revenge on the cattle industry because one rancher’s cattle trespassed on Marvel’s land and the rancher explained the fence-out law instead of addressing Marvel’s concerns. Western Watersheds Project has filed millions of dollars of lawsuits since that day, all in an attempt to retaliate against the rancher who followed the law and cause as much pain as possible to the entire industry.

Bitter revenge seems sweetest at first and I’ve spent many moments dreaming of the possibilities. But at the end of the day, I’m exhausted and disgusted with myself. The bitterness eats at me, turning me into a mean-spirited soapbox preacher who can not look in the mirror.

I don’t tolerate whiners or hypocrites either.

Choosing one of these three choices would eat at me until my soul would disappear.

My fourth choice is to treat others with respect and expect them to respect me. Steve and I need to stand up for all that we believe and we need to protect our family and resources. We respect the law — which leaves out all of those vengeful daydreams — and respect others’ rights to disagree with us. We must act civilly and speak clearly.

These difficulties have weighed heavily on my shoulders throughout the fall. I have renewed my choice to respect and be respected every day — sometimes I’ve wavered many times during the day so I had to make my choice over and over.

The holidays snuck up on me during all of this. I had a hard time finding that Christmas Spirit.

Then I realized that my choice epitomizes the Christmas Spirit.

What is Christmas but the celebration of our newfound choice to treat others as we would like to be treated? No more eye-for-an-eye or sons paying for their fathers’ sins. Instead, we can choose love. It might be tough love or it might be sympathetic love or even somewhere in between, but Christmas celebrates a new choice.

What is Christmas but the celebration of maintaining our self-respect by insisting on respectful actions from others?

We celebrate our individual choice to treat others as we would like to be treated when we wish one another Merry Christmas; when we reach out to those we love even if we haven’t spoken since last year; when we offer gifts, smiles and hugs.

Merry Christmas!

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

Recently, I finished reading Wolfer, By Carter Neimeyer. Neimeyer’s direct, no-holds-barred writing related vivid stories of his 30 years as a government trapper. He spent many of those years involved with reintroducing wolves to the U.S. and capturing those that preyed on livestock, and his stories illuminate the inside mechanics of that project.

But Niemeyer’s focus is narrow. In 355 pages, he never once looks beyond the jaws of a trap to the broader context of unlimited wolves in our society.

Bison relocation — moving Yellowstone National Park bison to other areas of Montana — hit the news recently, too. A person has to wonder whether the wolf reintroduction proponents and the bison relocation proponents meet at an undisclosed office to frame their arguments because the bison relocation proponents have the same problem: They forget to look at the broad context for the reasons to resist unlimited populations of wildlife.

Proponents of unlimited populations of both wolves and bison demand livestock producers to bear the full brunt of the consequences of these wildlife, along with other species that live on productive private land.

Generally, I tend to live and let live. I enjoy spotting a wolf or grizzly in the mountains and I agree that diverse wildlife populations stabilize ecosystems. My husband, Steve, and I contribute our share of feed, clean water and cover to many wildlife species. The habitat we contribute to those species reduces the number of livestock we are able to raise on our land — not much, but some. That is okay with us; we like to do our part.

But livestock producers are limited much more by federal policies that create cheap food for all Americans. Those policies have created few commodity markets and severely limited opportunities for value-added markets. In the end, a livestock producer’s long-term profit margin is zero at best. In fact, only the best business managers will break even over the course of 20 years. That’s why conventional wisdom dictates that a person can not buy a ranch in this day and age.

Yet wolf and bison proponents demand that those species have a right to unlimited propagation and livestock producers should accept this unalienable right as a natural cost of doing business. They state these claims while eating a hamburger from McDonald’s Value Menu that sells for $1, including the meat, the meat’s additives, the bun and the ketchup and mustard, as well as the building, utilities and teenager who bags the burger and hands it through the window. If wolf and bison hosting livestock producers were allowed to make a minimum 7% profit margin like other industries expect, that Value Menu burger would be a bargain at $10.

But Americans demand cheap food and unlimited populations of wolves and bison. The obvious answer, in the official mind, is to criminalize livestock producers who do not provide these.

If a person who lives in Billings or Great Falls or Bozeman has her car stolen, she is the victim. If she yells at the perpetrator or even pulls a gun on him, she is justifiably protecting her property. But unless a producer catches a wolf in the act of killing livestock, she is a criminal for protecting her property. If a free-roaming bison wanders through fences scattering horses, cattle and sheep onto the road and other‘s land, a producer is a criminal for protecting her property.

When public officials institute plans for unlimited populations of particular species, livestock producers feel as if they just stepped into a wacky carnival House of Mirrors. They get pulled and twisted and distorted until they don’t know which way to turn. Instead of attacking America’s source of inexpensive, nutritious, safe food, wolf and bison proponents should either find a solution that they can fund and manage or make a choice: feed people or feed wildlife. Livestock producers should not be expected to feed both.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

The blinking light on the phone beckoned: The elementary school was planning a Harvest Festival and would my husband, Steve, and I give rides with our team of horses and wagon?

Of course we would. Our team had carted giggling fourth- and fifth-graders around Conrad before. I answered the message more than a month ago.

But this time I was anxious.

We had not used our Percherons, Merry and Melody, for a while. The full sisters are strong, and sometimes Melody takes her bit in her teeth, bows her neck and goes just about wherever she wants to go. Steve has always been able to regain control eventually, but usually our passengers are 1700-pound bales of hay, not 65-pound human bouncy balls.

A couple of days before the Harvest Festival, Steve and I drove out to one of our south side pastures to catch Merry and Melody. We stood on the tailgate of the pickup to jump on — I rode Merry while Steve’s long legs split across Melody’s fluffy-not-fat broad back.

Our team did not want to leave the other horses.

I saw it coming. Steve thumped Melody with his heels. A cog in Melody’s brain twisted. Her ears twitched. The muscles in her neck rippled. Her front feet came off the ground. Steve’s legs gripped tighter. Melody’s hind feet cleared a sagebrush. The synapse returned to Melody’s brain, pausing one more time for a mighty thump from her massive front feet.

I laughed so hard that I thought I might fall off Merry. Instead of watching the lightning fast kick-snap of a National Finals Rodeo bareback bronc, I was watching a porch chair rocking in a gentle breeze. Somehow, Steve managed to stay on board.

We hitched the horses to the wagon and drove them around for a couple of miles. They did just what we asked of them.

Harvest Festival morning was dark and chilly. Daylight savings time had yet to buy an hour of morning light. None of us had thought about the need to harness the team in pitch black. Did we get the buckles tight? Were any of the lines twisted? Would our passengers be safe?

Steve played the strong silent role, guiding the team efficiently, stopping periodically to let the students get off the wagon and even, every once in a while, hitting a badger hole to bounce the passengers off their seats. Screams of delight and excited constant chatter kept him entertained.

I was the education committee. How much do these horses weigh? Thoughtful answers ranged from 100 to 100,000 pounds, until someone guessed a ton. How much do they eat in a day? A pound, 10 pounds and 100 pounds of hay were estimates. I hoped that the little girl who guessed one pound was feeding a Chihuahua, not a horse.

Then the kids asked questions.

Why did you name Merry like Christmas? She was born on Christmas morning.

Why do you call her Melody? You might hear her sing.

And the best question of the day, from a boy who looked as if our educational system might not fit all of his needs: How do you control these horses? My first thought — “sometimes we wonder about that, too” — probably wasn’t appropriate so everyone unloaded from the wagon and we looked at how the harness worked. And I took this opportunity to check the traces one more time.

One boy, observing the concho on Melody’s bridle, asked if we nail the bridles to the horses’ heads. At that moment, Steve and I agreed that our efforts were important.

But silence gave us the most reward.

Amid all the chatter and noise, two little girls would not speak. One would not even meet my eyes. But, one at a time, each little girl pet Merry and Melody. Steve and I watched a connection between horse and girl that was stronger than any words could form. One of the girls moved closer, toward Merry’s nose. Merry blew a greeting. The girl softly, slowly stroked Merry’s cheek. Merry blew again.

The girl’s smile lit up the playground, the sky and our whole world.