Celebrating human achievement!

My name is Maurita Knollene Lovelace McDaniel. I am a rancher's daughter and a rancher's wife. I am proud to be both. My husband, Fred, and I ranch in the center of New Mexico, near Claunch. I grew up on a large family ranch near Corona.

My grandad came to that part of the country in the late 1890's. He was one of the pioneer sheep breeders of that time. He raised his sheep and grazed them on the open range in the middle of cow country. When he was 40 he married my grandmother. They had three children, my dad, Knollin, being the youngest.

During the 30's that part of the country suffered a severe draught. My uncle and the sheep went to the Navajo country of Arizona. My dad and the cows went to the wheat fields of Anthony, Kansas. There he met my mom, Maurita Pearl Morrison. Her family ran the Morrison Hotel and were active horse breeders. They raised and raced thoroughbred trotters and pacers. My mother died when my brother was born. Dad remarried four years later. We lived at the headquarters and our house was next door to grandad's. We also had two Spanish families that lived there, the Otero's and Tofaya's.

Living next to grandad was great. I attached myself to him at an early age. He thought there might be hope for me since I liked the dogie lambs and the sheep. Grandad would often take me with him to the flats to check on the sheep. We would drive around and he would stop, get out and walk around, looking at the ground, get back in and drive down a little further and repeat the process. One day I asked him what we were looking for. "Knollene, you see the open spaces? We have to fill them with grass."

Everyone has a family tree. After reflecting on this, it came to me that ranch families are more like the native grasses that cover our ranges. You know, we have the tops (depending on the rain), they nourish all that pass through and help to cool the soil underneath. Then there are the fine roots that are just under the topsoil and spread out. Then we have the finger-like roots that go down five feet or better. We ranch families, too, have been putting down deep roots. Each generation has its own set of plants.

Between 1950 and 1958, I lost my grandmother, my grandad, and my dad. My roots were severely shaken. That summer, a little roan horse and I gave "burning daylight" a new meaning. I covered every corner of that 100 sections, and in the process the land healed my emotions and my spirit. I acquired a deep respect for the place I called home.

In 1960, I married my husband, Fred. In 1964 we finally inherited the ranch and some cows and a large debt. It didn't make any difference, it was ours. We loaded up two kids, two dogs, a cat, one dogie calf, one dogie lamb, and three horses, and moved to a very unimproved ranch at Claunch. We built a house on the side of a hill, 18 miles off the black-top. Friends would come to see us, jump out of the pickup and ask to see the conastogas which, they were convinced, was the last thing that had come in over the road.

We had 50 sections -- one pasture with 25 sections, one with 17 sections, and two traps of five sections and three sections -- and some of the wildest Hereford cows you ever saw. The first year we sold three truck loads of cancer-eyed, barren and spoiled-bag cows. Our roots were being nurtured with dreams and hopes and watered with lots of sweat.

For 30 years we have raised kids, cross-fenced, and run pipelines and fixed leaks, and fixed leaks, and fixed leaks, -- readjusted floats -- and fixed leaks. Our place has three wells. On a good day pumping full capacity we pump eight gallons a minute. In case you are wondering, that amounts to a trickle, three dribbles and a drop. We have many miles of pipeline, and when an unexpected riparian area appears, it is serious and handled promptly. As soon as the men of the house leave for a few days -- hunting trip, to buy rams, whatever -- and crosses the county line, something breaks, stops, or leaks. At our house, you can bet it is a leak, and almost always there are 100 cows wanting water at the other end.

I do not believe you can talk about ranch families without talking about land. Writing this caused me to reflect on all the people in my circle of life. There are, of course, those with their name on the deeds and their families. Some have been here for three, four, or five generations. These roots are well established. Then there are those men and women who work and ride for the brand. They raise families and love the land and this way of life. Many of them are third and fourth generations too. Without them, western ranchers would not be what they are today. They produce their own set of roots and help fill in the spaces. Not to be overlooked are the people who come and go with the seasons, such as shearing crews, branding crews, feed salesmen, lamb buyers, calf buyers, the list goes on and on. They too play an intricate part in filling in the spaces.

In the time of the dust bowl in Oklahoma, grandad brought in two of his nephews from Oklahoma, and put them on ranches at Claunch and Carrizozo. They both raised families and later retired. So you see just as the grasses that cover our ranges vary in species, each help to fill in the spaces and keep the topsoil from blowing away. The tops are used for nourishment for all that pass -- wildlife, cattle, turtles, and birds. The grass cools the soil beneath it and offers shade for insects, lizards, and spiders. We too give nourishment in our values and our strength -- our ability to go with the flow, to be flexible, to take the good, and the bad -- and remain. All of these traits affect everyone that passes through our lives.

The children's friends from school each learn to ride, share in branding, marking, and shearing in everyday ranch life. Each learns to love the comraderie that is always present in ranch homes and at the corrals -- goes to college, becomes a professional business person and dreams of getting a little place someday. They go on to buy a few acres or lease a little place -- always have a horse or two. Well, they are hooked. You see from their acquaintance with our way of life that the root has sprouted up. The love of the land and a way of life have been instilled, and their roots are started. Filling the spaces. We put our thumbprint on all that enter our lives.

In my particular life, my grandfather first came and put the ranches together. It was he who first fenced it and started drilling wells. The next generation started improving and cross-fencing and, of course, water development. As each generation grew and chose to remain on the ranch, better ways of improving the grasses became imperative. I don't know how many times it was preached to me: "If you don't take care of the land, it won't take care of you.

The present generation now finds itself always looking for ways and methods to improve the land, but we also find ourselves in a face-off with our own government. I am afraid emotions and roots both run deep. You see, if you look at maps in our area, over in our neighbor's pasture, is Lovelace Mesa, north of us is an area labeled Lovelace Lambing Pens. These were also on the earliest maps that had large areas marked "vacant land." My family has been making a living with this land before there was a State of New Mexico, or a Taylor Grazing Act. The only way my family and many others like us could continue to be here is if we continually take care of the grass that provides us a living. We don't live off the land. We live with it in harmony. That is the only way it can sustain us and continue to rejuvenate itself and we who call it home.

Our kids went to school in Corona, 63 miles one way, five miles were paved. That bus ride enabled them to have a general education. Our youngest could tell the dirtiest jokes. Fortunately, she didn't understand them, think goodness. They both turned out to be pretty good poker players. Through our years we had the usual events -- 4-H, Junior Rodeos, play days, FFA, long week at the state fair with at least two complete sets of rambouillets in the open show -- and a stream of their friends flowed through our doors.

In the mid 1960s my uncle died from a tragic gunshot accident. Then in 1974 my cousin was killed in an airplane wreck. His sister and mother took over the home place. Then in the late 1980s, she decided to sell. We had several long conversations with feelings from both sides being laid on the table. The ranch was sold. My roots were severed from the parent plant.

The process pulled at my heart strings and put tremendous strain on a good marriage. Outside of the death of my father, nothing has ever hurt so much. Every time I go to town and have to go through that part of the ranch, I still stop and tie up floats, chop out sandburrs and notice the range condition.

In 1989, Fred had a heart attack and then in 1990, contracted a disease called neuropathy, leaving him disabled and in 1992 we were in a very bad pickup wreck, putting Fred in a coma for five days and then three months of rehab. So once again the miscellaneous of life showed up at the door, but that happens in all of our lives at different times and in different ways. How we handle the problem is our individuality.

The same happens with our ranges -- floods, hail, wind, fire, drought -- change the structure of the grasses. How often has there been a drought and it looks like large patches of grass are dead and gone -- but then a couple of years later you notice on the edge of this dead, dry clump, a sprig of green. You see, down in that root system, one little root forgot to give up. Just as the ranges are nourished with rain and snow, our roots are nourished with our hopes and dreams, with tears of laughter and tears of sorrow, and lots of sweat.

In my circle, there have been many times that my roots have been shaken and severed, but you see, that is okay. Because way over here just waving in the breeze, are two young tender plants. Their roots are headed down. They are green and growing.

May god bless us all and give us strength and may you and yours continue to fill in the spaces, and may you always be green and growing.

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