My Take Tuesday: Castle Dale, My Cure

I was born where the blue clay hills rise slow,
Where sagebrush whispers and alfalfa fields grow.
No stoplights blink on our silent streets,
But the town’s heartbeat is where kinfolk meet.

Castle Dale, carved in dust and grace,
A blip on the map—but my holy place.
The San Rafael to the east lies wide,
Horn and East Mountains flank the other side.

Cows in the pastures, old windmills spin,
Where a boy earns his worth from the sweat of his skin.
We hauled hay ‘til our hands turned raw,
Learned to drive stick before we could draw.

The air smells of leather, manure, and rain,
Of branding smoke and sheared fleece stain.
And though the winters bit and summers blazed,
The simple joys lit up our days—
Like a rope well-thrown, a calf born sound,
Or a truck that finally turned around.

It’s where fence posts lean but still hold tight,
And neighbors wave in broad daylight.
Dreams sprout like corn in a warm spring row,
Fed by grit and a cowboy’s know-how.

Chores came first, then school if you must,
And secrets blew ’round like Emery County dust.
Everybody knows who lost a calf,
Who got bucked off, and who needs a laugh.

It’s the place that built these calloused hands,
Taught me to heal what the Lord understands.
Where I stitched my first cut on a neighbor’s stray,
And figured out this was my way.
I was hooked, no question, plain to see—
A doc for the critters, wild and free.

Now I chase the blacktop, barn to pen,
Through sleet and sorrow, back again.
Some days you lose more than you win—
But you saddle back up and dig right in.

And when the weight piles high and thick,
When I’m plum wore out and the clock won’t tick,
I head back home, where the sky turns gold,
To a stretch of road my soul still holds.

Down Bott Lane’s path, straight and wide,
Where poplars lean with family pride.
Planted by hands now long at rest,
Still standing tall at their old request.

For Castle Dale’s more than just some tiny town—
It’s the grit in my spine when life breaks down.
It’s the forge, the fire, the chapel, the cure,
It’s why I stand tall, and why I endure.

So when the world gets loud and the fight gets mean,
I go back where the sage grows clean.
So when you ask what keeps me whole—
It’s the soil, the stock, and that sky’s wide soul.

And that is My Take!
N. Isaac Bott, DVM