Just under 10 years ago my wife and I spent an agonizing weekend. We made ourselves physically ill. We worried, we contemplated, we doubted, and we dreamed. We were deciding whether or not to take the plunge and buy a piece of property in the country. We knew there would have to be sacrifices made. Those sacrifices might cause us some hardship later. We wondered if we were committed enough to accept these unknown events and work through them.
That decision was as it should be; it was hard. Paying for this little piece of God’s earth would be even harder. We weren’t afraid of hard work, nor were we afraid of giving up in order to get a payout at a later time. The instant gratification mentality exhibited by people who believe they are entitled to everything right now is not something we subscribe to. Things that come easy never have as much value as those things that take investment and hard work. If you want a glaring example ask a car dealer about the shape most leased cars are in versus cars that are owned.
My wife and I have been blessed with courage. It’s not something a lot of people have. We aren’t timid people. 
We’ve moved halfway across the country leaving everything we knew, and all of our support systems, behind. We’ve sailed the open waters of the ocean in boats over a decade and a half old. We’ve launched businesses from an idea on a scrap of paper.
We couldn’t afford it, but we had a dream and the courage to pursue it.
I grew up in the Midwest and the Northeast. Texas; I never thought I’d say it, but I really love it here. I love the geographical variety of this state. You can have breakfast in the 4th largest city in the country and enjoy a picnic lunch in country so remote that large predatory cougars are the top of the food chain.
The Stacy Ranch is an odd shaped piece of property 125 miles from Dallas, 125 miles from Houston, and yes, 125+ miles from Austin.
It’s easy to dive right in and start changing a piece of land to suit your needs but we spent a bit of time thinking about our long term dreams and visions. We’ve drawn an imaginary line across the property where it makes the turn. The “Front 40” is ours. We’ve domesticated some portions of it. We mow parts of it. There are benches in a variety of places, a barn, and a home site. We’ve run water lines totaling over a mile in length. The vineyard was planted 9 years ago. If a tree comes down most of the time it ends up as firewood. There are gates and fences, faucets and fixtures, along with cultured stone and roads. The Front 40 belongs to man.
The Back 40 is a different story. No electricity, no graveled roads, no structures. When the earth shook from the oak tree with an 8 foot diameter trunk crashing to the ground 5 years ago it stayed right there. No firewood pile for this fallen giant, now it is a refuge for the snakes, rodents, and rabbits that call its cover home. It’s a good feeling when you’re walking through a nicely manicured city park with the sun on your shoulders. The claustrophobic feelings of office buildings disappear and you can enjoy some time outside. It’s nice. Our ranch is far enough out that the Back 40 is still a wild place. When the sun is on your shoulders and you’re strolling through the meadow, or walking the path wandering across the back forest, you know you’re out. Not outside; out. Out of the circle of man’s touch. I like it there but I’m never in my element. The back half of the ranch is not for man, it is God’s, it is wild.
I don’t hear very well any longer but I still have a pretty good nose. There is a smell at the ranch. It is slightly musty, organic, and perhaps dusty. There is sweetness to it not unlike the smell of new mown hay. Unfamiliar to those accustomed to the city. Pleasant? Yes. 
It reminds me of my younger days. Days filled with the smells of horses, the scents of leather bridles and gloves, and the aromas of distant farmer’s fields brought in by the summer breezes. I think smell has always been a powerful sense for me. I drive my wife crazy, although she loves me too much to say anything about it, with my passion for leather. I must have 10 pairs of leather gloves, 3 or 4 leather briefcases, jackets and sweaters with leather patches, all because I love the smell. Her perfume and skin is an intoxicating aroma that has stirred me from my sleep more times than I care to admit. All of my sportscars are set to run just a little rich. Why? Well first it’s better to run rich than lean, but also because I love the pungent, carbon rich, smell of unburned fuel emitting from the tailpipes.
In the past I’ve gone a year or two without feeling any passion for the ranch but it always comes back. It comes back in memories, dreams, and hopes. She’s always there in all of them.
My memories remind me of her strength and toughness when 
the vision of her raising the walls of our barn return. How can she be so pretty and elegant yet be so tough? I laugh when I remember the time she jumped out of the truck, no fear, ready to take on a 1 ton Texas Longhorn bull and the bull, figuring he’d been bested, ran from the fury. I sigh and smile when I remember the day she curled up next to me and took a nap under the big tree which overhangs the pond, its big limbs providing cooling shade on a warm summer’s day.
In those dreams she’s always there. Her femininity shines as I see her in a pretty sundress and hat going for a walk with me. Her delicate hand tucked safely in mine. I bask in the boundless expanse of her love as I envision her watchin
g over her grandchildren as they romp across her land playing some made up game on a future afternoon. The dreams are so real I can actually hear the crickets over by the pond, I feel the warm summer evening breeze across my face, and I can see the firelight glinting from her eyes as I sit across the table from her enjoying a dinner under the vast expanse of the Milky Way.
My hopes are that I can somehow be anywhere close to the man she sees me as. That I can manage and maintain the ranch in a way that God will smile upon. That I’ll have the opportunity to live these dreams with her for many years to come.
The values for ranch property in Texas have changed in ways that most Wall Street brokers could only hope to match. If we couldn’t afford it back then we definitely couldn’t afford it now. We had the courage. It was hard at times and we doubted ourselves. We did it together, the two of us as one united front.
We had a dream.
But some dreams must die.
Our dream is about to go away.
In 5 months, 2 weeks, and 6 days the mortgage on the Stacy Ranch will be paid in full. We will close the back cover and dream the dream of buying a ranch no more for as Mother promised you as she tucked you into bed……some dreams do come true.
I remember the smell of oil, fuel and exhaust. Why did it always smell a little better there than in a garage full of Chevys? My Dad would take an old Mercedes Benz to Rick’s place for service. Dad always got there late in the day often armed with a bottle of Jack Daniels. I think the bottle was Dad’s attempt to bribe Rick into lowering the bill. He and Rick would sit over in the corner drinking whiskey and talking about who knows what. I can still picture Rick’s dog, who was mostly a wild wolf from the mountains of Colorado mixed with some domestic canine. He would keep an eye on me as I wandered from car to car. 
Triumph, Jensen, Alfa, Fiat, Ferrari, & Maserati were the names I whispered. Astons and Austins, Bug-eyes and Bugattis, Lolas and Lambos, Spitfires and Sunbeams; it was a grand time to like cars. There
were scantily clad chromed women adorning the radiators and handmade cloisonné badges proclaiming the manufacturer’s name. Interiors were covered in acres of leather all of it rolled or pleated. Carpets were Wilton wool. Oh the smell was pure heaven. Wooden dashboards had gauges inset. 
Shiny chromed bezels surrounded black or white faces with white or red needles. There were no “idiot lights”, no true enthusiast would ever trust a light. Oil pressure, oil temperature, water temp, amps, volts, rpm, fuel pressure, vacuum, and many other functions
were all monitored by these little dials. I can still remember the odd feeling of seeing cars where the hood and the fenders were one unit so the entire front end was rotated forward in order to get to the engine.
measured by the half century mark. Over the years many of these moving sculptures have spent time in my stewardship. Recently an attempt was made to name them all. The number is staggering, embarrassing, un-nerving, and humbling. Another acquisition or two and it will take three digits to count them all.
Some of them were as new as could be; others required a huge imagination to be considered anything other than scrap. Oh my, they were so much fun. A few were the definition of frustration. Some of them were true history. A couple were my friends. Some are missed to this day.
There was the GT6 that shed its wheel on Lake Shore Drive. The Reynard that tried to kill me. The Stag that was so eager to get to its new home it tried to pass me by as I was towing it to my garage. The Z in which I stole that first kiss. 
The 275 I drove in the funeral procession as I followed my friend who was killed in his E. The 6 in which I took her for her first ride in a convertible. Many a fond picture has been burned into my memory. The sunset in the mountains of Tennessee behind the wheel of an Italian V12. 
The sound of the exhaust echoing off of the walls of an old covered bridge in southern Indiana. Seeing the firelight glint off the chrome bumper at a campsite in the boundary water country. Ripping down a
mountain road, tires throwing gravel out over the valley, wondering just how close I was to the edge of the cliff wall. Watching the sun break the surface of the ocean as I laid my head in the crook of my arm resting it on the roof of another one of these beauties.
one occasion she has rolled her eyes and gone back inside after I’ve sheepishly said, “It was lonely and followed me home. No kidding, honest.” Or steadfastly shouted, “No!” when I’ve just merely mentioned the name of some make or model she hasn’t heard of, only to later say something like “Where in God’s name are you going to put it?”
I’ve tried to share my passion with my family. My son learned to love boats and the water when we had boats and the car bug never bit him. My oldest grandson would rather spend the day conquering the world with some electronic contraption. My grand-daughter loves to go for rides, but the sickness, err, passion isn’t there.
the late 60’s. So the other day I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride. As he nodded his head I told him to get his hat and meet me in the garage. My beautiful daughter and his grandmother weren’t quite sure of this plan but we were too far along to stop at that point. He was quiet as we buckled him in. He watched intently as the 35 year old engine roared to life and I reached out to tap the oil pressure gauge, a habit performed by all pilots and sports car owners. He didn’t move a muscle. Even grandma 
thought he was frozen with fear. As we backed out of the driveway he slowly waved his little hand “bye” and we were off. I tried talking to him as we drove around the block but he wouldn’t answer. His face was covered by his oversized baseball cap. When we got back to the house I asked him if he wanted to go again. A small nod of the head, a wave to grandma, and we were off. I thought he might be saying something so I leaned over to get closer to him. That’s when I heard him. I admit it, a tear came to my eye as he turned to me and said, “Vrrrrrr Vrrrrrrrrooooooommm”.
