By Beth Watkins
There’s something about springtime that makes folks want to open windows, clean out closets, and maybe even peek out the front door to see if the neighbors are still alive and ready for a cookout. After a long winter of confusing, seesawing temperatures—where you needed shorts one day and a parka the next—March just rolls in with her own mysterious mood swings. Will she bring warm breezes and wild daffodils, or will she slap us with a late snowstorm and the flu for good measure?

March is the season of new growth. The earth starts greening up, baby calves find their legs, and every hardware store in the county sells out of tomato plants. Folks start making ambitious garden plans, fueled by equal parts hope, memory loss about last year’s weeds, and the siren song of heirloom seed catalogs. You find yourself petting baby chicks at Atwoods, thinking, “How hard can it be?” while conveniently forgetting you once killed a cactus.

But maybe this year, along with our gardens and yards, it’s time we put a little effort into growing something else: personal responsibility. And maybe even—brace yourself—neighborly love.

Now, I’m not talking about the kind of neighborly love where you let someone move in with their three untrained dogs, six boxes of drama, and a Wi-Fi password they never stop using. I mean the kind where we treat folks with basic kindness and decency, without expecting them to carry our groceries, fix our fences, or raise our children.

Somewhere along the way, it seems like society forgot that love and enabling are two different things. The Bible says to love your neighbor as yourself. It does not say to take your neighbor on as a dependent. Yet more and more, we’re seeing an attitude of entitlement blooming like crabgrass in what used to be tight-knit, self-reliant communities.

There was a time when being called “self-sufficient” was a compliment. It meant you could patch a roof with tar and a prayer, make a pot of beans stretch a week, and wrangle your own problems without immediately calling the government, your mama, or Channel 5 News. You didn’t expect handouts—you offered a hand up when someone else truly needed it. But lately, some folks have gotten real comfortable hollering “help me!” before they’ve even tried standing up on their own two feet.

Case in point: a woman on social media said she needed her oil changed and a chicken coop built. She had the supplies but no funds to pay for help. Fair enough—times are tough. But the very next day, she posted photos of her estate sale haul, bragging about how she “only” spent $400. Not even a month later, she’s showing off her custom steel gate entryway. Clearly it’s not a money shortage—it’s a priority misplacement.

That kind of thinking doesn’t just stunt personal growth—it chokes the roots of the community. I know people need help, and we are called to love our neighbors, but let’s get real, folks. Last year’s gold medal for gall goes to the woman hosting her child’s backyard birthday party who posted: “Can anyone bring enough food for about twenty people? The child loves spaghetti with all the trimmings, and a cake. Please deliver it hot, at party time.” You think I’m kidding? I’m not. I’m still in shock.

We weren’t meant to live like hermits, but we weren’t meant to sponge off the folks who are doing the work either. There’s a balance somewhere between “do-it-all-yourself survivalist” and “the world owes me a living.” And that sweet spot is where real growth happens.

Spring is a perfect reminder of that. You can’t just toss seeds in the dirt and expect a harvest. You have to work the soil, pull the weeds, and show up every day—even when it’s hot, dry, or swarming with grasshoppers. Same goes for character. You’ve got to tend it. Cultivate it. And not just when people are watching.

If you want a better world, you’ve got to start in your own backyard. Literally and figuratively. Pick up the trash that blew into your fence line, and since it came from your poly cart, go grab your soda can out of your neighbor’s yard too. Wave at your neighbor, even if he insists on mowing in Crocs and tube socks and blowing his grass trimmings into the street. A little physical kindness can go a long way.

I grew up being taught that if someone was struggling, lost a loved one, or just got over an illness, you found a way to help—even if it was just sending over a casserole. Honestly, our first instinct should be to offer help, not because we want a parade in our honor, but because it’s the right thing to do. If you’re swamped with work or kids or life, send a food gift card. If you’re short on funds, offer to mow a lawn, babysit for an hour, or just check in.

We should teach our kids and grandkids that it’s natural to struggle. That hard work isn’t punishment—it’s how things get built. It’s how we move forward. Asking for help in a crisis is fine, but leaning on others indefinitely is no way to grow tall and strong. A goal shouldn’t be “how do I get the best handouts” but rather, “how do I build a life I’m proud of?”

We all need each other, but we also need to pull our own weight. Otherwise, this whole wagon’s going to tip. There are programs out there to help folks get back on their feet, but they aren’t just hangouts—they’re meant to be springboards. To break the cycle. To build something better.

So maybe this spring, as the world begins to thaw and bloom again, take a quiet moment to reflect on the life you’re growing—both inside and out. Ask yourself what kind of neighbor you are. Are you showing love, or just expecting it? Are you helping things bloom, or draining the rain barrel?

There’s still a lot of good in this world. I see it every day—in farmers helping neighbors fix fence after a storm, in church ladies who deliver meals without a fuss, in kids learning to shake hands and look folks in the eye. But good doesn’t grow on its own. It takes effort. It takes intention. And sometimes it takes a little tough love with a smile.

So here’s to spring: the season of new beginnings, fresh starts, and maybe, just maybe, a collective shift back to kindness, accountability, and old-fashioned neighborly grace.

Let’s roll up our sleeves, open the windows, clean out the cobwebs. Let’s go through our closets and our abundance, and donate to local places that help people get back on their feet—places that believe in a hand up, not just a handout. That’s how we grow something better.

By Savannah Magoteaux

This morning, I walked out into my arena and noticed something that gave me pause. The roping steers had been in there the day before, and even though the ground was wide and level, the dirt carried their story. Hoofprints crossed every direction, but in several spots, the same trail was pressed deeper than the rest. Twelve steers had been turned out, yet more than a few chose the exact same path, wearing it down until it stood out from all the other tracks.

Cattle are creatures of habit. Anyone who has spent time around them knows this. They like routine: the same feed, the same water trough, the same shade tree in the pasture. When they are turned loose, they rarely wander without purpose. More often than not, they move together, following the same course as the steer in front of them. There are reasons for this: efficiency, safety, instinct. Walking a beaten path conserves energy, and following the herd is their natural defense. Even in an arena with no real destination, those instincts come through. By the end of a short turnout, you will see the evidence, lines where they have chosen the easiest way to travel and stuck with it.

Out on the range, those lines last longer. Before fences and highways, cattle drives cut deep paths across the land. The Chisholm Trail, which carried herds north from Texas through Oklahoma into Kansas, was walked by millions of cattle in the late 1800s. More than a century later, faint traces of those trails remain, worn so deep by hooves and wagon wheels that the land still carries the mark. On ranches today, you can see the same effect in pastures where cattle walk the same lines between water and grazing. From the ground, those trails might look like nothing more than dusty ruts, but from the air, they sometimes stand out as sharp lines winding through otherwise open fields. Cattle do not simply pass over the land; they shape it. Every step adds up.

That simple truth extends beyond livestock. We all make tracks. Our habits and routines are our trails, worn in by repetition, sometimes efficient, sometimes limiting. Like the cow paths, they can serve a purpose, keeping us steady and helping us move forward. But when repeated without thought, they risk becoming ruts, keeping us from stepping into new ground. History offers perspective here, too. The old cattle trails built towns and economies, but once railroads and fences changed the landscape, those paths were no longer helpful. Sticking to them would have meant going in circles. Progress required something new.

The Tracks We Leave

Standing in the arena, I thought about the kind of tracks I leave behind. Most of mine are not visible in the dirt. They are pressed into my daily life, how I work, the way I handle challenges, and the example I set. Some are helpful and worth keeping. Others may have outlived their purpose. The difference lies in knowing when to stay on the track and when to step off it.

Tomorrow I will drag the arena and smooth it all clean again. The next time the steers are turned in, they will make the same trails. That is their nature. But unlike them, I have a choice. I can decide which paths are worth walking, which ones to change, and what kind of tracks I want to leave for others who might follow.

Tracks tell a story. Sometimes they are only temporary, fading with the next rain. Other times, they last for generations, reminders of where herds and people once walked. This morning, the cattle showed me again that even the smallest things on the ranch carry meaning. Their tracks in the arena were not just marks in the dirt. They are a lesson showing that every step matters, and the paths we choose shape more than just the ground beneath our feet.

References

Jordan, T. G. Trails to Texas: Southern Roots of Western Cattle Ranching. University of Nebraska Press, 1981.

Frantz, J. B. “The Chisholm Trail.” Handbook of Texas Online, Texas State Historical Association.

Bailey, C. “Animal Behavior and Herd Dynamics in Cattle.” Oklahoma State University Extension, 2019.

National Park Service. “Chisholm Trail: Herding Cattle and History.” https://www.nps.gov

Total Time: 1 hour and 40 minutes

Servings: 10

2 medium apples (any type), peeled, cored & diced 

1/3 cup brown sugar

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened

2/3 cup granulated sugar

2 large eggs

1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 3/4 tsp baking powder

1/2 cup milk

For the Glaze:

• 1/2 cup (60g) powdered sugar

1–2 tbsp milk

1/4 tsp vanilla extract

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease and line a 9×5-inch loaf pan with parchment paper.

Peel and chop apples and place in a bowl with brown sugar and cinnamon. Toss and set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, cream together butter and granulated sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs one at a time, then add vanilla. In a separate bowl, whisk together flour and baking powder. Gradually add dry ingredients to the butter mixture, alternating with milk, mixing until just combined.

Next, pour half of the batter into the loaf pan, top with half of the apple mixture, then repeat with remaining batter and apples. Lightly swirl with a knife for a marbled effect.

Bake for 50–55 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Cool in pan for 10 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

In a small bowl, whisk together powdered sugar, milk, and vanilla until smooth. Drizzle over cooled bread.

Slice and enjoy warm or at room temperature.