Every graduating senior in the Schumacher family gets a scrapbook — birth to age 18 — a tradition that started years ago and has become a rite of passage. Natasha had done a great job beginning Brenna’s, but life on a farm with three kids, jobs, and 4‑H animals meant the scrapbook had fallen off the table more than once.
I had no idea what was coming!
Now graduation was days away. The party was for 100 people. The animals had just arrived — seven sheep and three steers. And Brenna had just gotten her new dog for college, where she’d be on the cow‑dog team.
It was all happening at once.
I couldn’t believe Brenna was graduating. I still remember holding her when she was just hours old. I remember the three years she lived with me. I remember the little cowgirl on a horse who grew into a young woman who loves livestock, agriculture, and the wide‑open spaces of Nebraska. She was headed to the University of Nebraska at Curtis in the fall. But first — she had to graduate.
I arrived in Nebraska and jumped straight into the whirlwind. Natasha and I worked side by side, trying to finish the scrapbook, organize the party, and keep the farm running. On Friday morning — the day before graduation — I drove back to Fort Collins to pick up Genevieve, who has been as much a grandmother to Brenna as any of her great‑grandmothers. She held Brenna when she was two months old and has been a constant presence ever since.
We had lunch, turned around, and headed straight back to Nebraska.
Friday night, we went up to Natasha’s place, where the new shop had been transformed into a party barn. Tables, decorations, food prep — everyone was working. Genevieve and I helped where we could, then headed back to Alliance for the night.
I asked Natasha if she needed me early the next morning. She said no.
At 8:30 a.m., the phone rang.
She needed ice. Immediately. Could I get it to her?
Of course I could.
I threw on clothes, grabbed my keys, and drove 20 miles to deliver ice. As soon as I arrived, we realized we needed more. This time I drove north to Hemingford, grabbed another load, dropped it off, then raced back to Alliance to pick up Genevieve.
I showered in her hotel room, got dressed, and we headed to the high school.
We watched the 2026 Class of Hemingford High School, all 32 strong, walk across the stage, flip their tassels, and celebrate the end of their high school years. Then we hurried back to the party, where the shop was filled with food, laughter, family, friends, and the kind of joy that only comes from seeing a child you love reach a milestone. By the time I dropped Genevieve at her hotel and returned to my RV, I was exhausted in the best possible way.
A Quick Trip to Tennessee — Because Why Not Add More?
Months earlier, I had promised my doctor I would return to Tennessee every six months so she could put eyes and hands on me and keep my medication routine stable. I had scheduled my flight for the Tuesday after graduation, assuming I’d be taking Genevieve back to Fort Collins anyway.
Sunday morning, I packed for a quick seven‑day trip, picked up Genevieve, and we headed back to Colorado.
I was feeling relaxed. The scrapbook was done. The party was a success. Graduation was behind us.
Then Monday happened.
Cindy’s Fall
On Monday, the phone rang at Genevieve’s house. It was Cindy.
She was in pain. She was upset. She had fallen.
She’d been leading Robby out of his stall the day before her first planned class with him. She had changed her routine — put her boots on before entering the stall — and didn’t pick her feet up high enough. She tripped, fell, and dislocated her left wrist, breaking bones in the process.
She lives alone. She had surgery scheduled for the following week. She needed help.
My ticket to Tennessee was flexible. I told Genevieve I would go.
She protested — briefly — then admitted she didn’t want to drive in Phoenix. I was more comfortable with it, so she agreed.
Tennessee in Fast‑Forward
I flew to Tennessee, picked up my rental car, and made the rounds:
- my doctor
- my aunt in Chattanooga
- friends in Winchester
- sorority sisters at a Saturday lunch
It was a whirlwind, but a good one.
Then I left the lunch early, drove to the airport, and flew to Phoenix.
Cindy picked me up, and I got my first look at her cast — all the way through her fingers and up around her elbow. Her arm was immobilized. Everything was difficult.
Helping Cindy Heal
We spent Monday and Tuesday together, then Wednesday was surgery day. Afterward, her cast was shorter — below the elbow — and she had more range of motion. Her fingers were still stiff and swollen, but they slowly improved.
We fell into a rhythm:
- going to the barn to check on Robby
- running errands
- figuring out what she could and couldn’t do
- me helping where she needed it
- her trying (as always) to do more than she should
She’s stubborn — a chip off the old block — but she also knows that pushing too hard will only delay healing. So she behaved. Mostly.
Phoenix in May is a surprise if you’re not expecting it. The desert isn’t subtle — it explodes. The saguaros were in bloom, each one crowned with creamy white flowers that look almost too delicate for a cactus that can live two centuries. The prickly pears were bright with yellow blossoms, and the palo verde trees glowed neon green in the sun. Even in the middle of helping Cindy, I found myself stopping to stare at the desert in full color. It’s a landscape that refuses to be ignored.
Between barn visits and conversations with Cindy’s trainer, I learned more about Quarter Horses in a week than I knew there was to learn. Bloodlines, conformation, training styles, discipline differences — it’s a whole world with its own language. I’ve always loved horses, but this was the first time I’d seen the depth of the Quarter Horse universe up close. It made my ride on Whizzy even more meaningful.
Riding Again
Whizzy belongs to Cindy’s trainer and his fiancée. One day, they offered to let me ride him. I was nervous — it had been a long time — and I wasn’t sure how I was going to get on a horse.
It took three people, but I did it.
I walked. I trotted. I kept my seat. I didn’t fall off.
Was I a great rider? No. Was it a thrill? Absolutely.
I’m grateful to Dakota, Jade, Cindy, and Whizzy for giving me that moment.
Living Out of Four States at Once
As I write this, I’m still in Phoenix, leaving in a few days. My life is scattered across the West:
- My truck has been sitting in the Denver Airport parking lot for over three weeks.
- My good laptop and frozen food are at Genevieve’s.
- My trailer is locked up in Alliance.
- My packages are at Natasha’s.
- And I’m here in Phoenix with just enough clothes to get by.
Discombobulated doesn’t begin to cover it. And to make matters worse, I didn’t have enough charger cords for everything — including the camera battery charger I’d somehow lost. I was too stubborn to order another one when I had three sitting safely at home, so as a person who lives for her camera, I felt absolutely lost.
The thing about this lifestyle is simple: home is where you park it. I’ve enjoyed this unexpected time with Cindy — the conversations, the quiet moments, the shared stubbornness — but I was anxious to get back to my own space. My camera battery was waiting. My trailer was waiting. My rhythm was waiting.
And when I finally landed at the Denver airport, I went straight to my truck — the one that had been sitting there for over three weeks — and plugged my fresh camera battery that was waiting there for me. I didn’t even make it out of the airport grounds before the sky decided to reward me. A sunset bloomed across the horizon, the kind that stops you in your tracks and reminds you exactly why you carry a camera in the first place. It became the last photo of journey — a perfect, unexpected gift at the end of a wild six weeks.
