Glad you do what you do
At a recent High Plains Journal educational event, an attendee stopped me and asked if I was the one who lived south of town. He’d evidently read my stories from the Starbuck fire and followed along with our coverage in 2017.
The more we talked, we found several commonalities in the people we’d met because of fire. He’d donated some hay to the Anderson Creek fires in 2016, and knew one of the sources I’d spoken with for flood hay donations in 2019.
In parting, he made the comment that he really appreciated the work the Journal did in finding and reporting the stories. I said to him because of my personal experiences with the fire and how it had burned part of the Scott Farm, it had changed me. Changed my perspective on the good in people. I wrote about it more than once on my blog.
As I walked away from that conversation, I had a little bit more energy in my soul. As much as I dislike the feeling people know who I am and that I write for the Journal. I know, I know, it’s all part of the job. But for me, it’s a struggle. Still after 16 years, I struggle. But, when what you write can help another person, it’s energizing. I like that feeling of helping, but the feeling of being recognized is not one I want. Probably makes absolutely no sense, but neither do I sometimes!
I looked at my Facebook memories last week, and noticed one of them was a post asking prayers for my Dad. That post meant in 2017 he was in the hospital. It meant he was close to the end of his life. And it also meant time was encroaching in on the anniversary of the fire. They’re all related because the day of Dad’s funeral was the day of the Starbuck fire, March 6, 2017.
In the three years since the fire, a lot has changed. We’ve changed. We parted ways with family members. My husband and I have purchased some land and cows. We’ve gotten two calf crops on the ground and are looking forward to the third. He’s changed jobs from driving truck to riding colts and taking care of cattle for my cousin’s husband.
Although I didn’t get to experience the terror and horrible scenes of the actual wildfire like my husband had to when he was trying to save our cattle, I’m still scarred. I don’t like windy days. I don’t like red flag fire warnings. I’m not real fond of the fact that wildfires might be something we have to contend with living on the high plains. March always has such a negative connotation. One day I hope it doesn’t.
But what I do like and what continues to push me to write, is the people. People in agriculture are some of the best. I’m probably preaching to the choir, but people like the gentleman last week make it worth it. Genuinely appreciative of us taking the time to report on and share the news that’s important to them. Thank you, sir, for reminding me of what’s important instead of focusing on what we’ve lost. We have gained so much more.
