Western Housewives – August 2025

By Summer McMillen

“We mellow with age.” That’s an age-old myth I’ve heard since I was a little girl. They said it about my grandpa when he became a grandfather to two little girls. They said it about my dad as he got a son of his own. And now, they say it about my parents as they’ve become grandparents to my own children.

They used to say it about horses, too. The colts we used to ride—who would leap over creeks like they were hot lava—turned into aged geldings that would calmly walk across the creek as if they were carrying the queen of England. Young mares that would run away from anyone trying to touch their new foal became older, wiser mares who stood sturdy, studying their surroundings.

It seems that, with time, everything mellows. As I’m starting to add a little age to myself, I’m wondering if my day will ever come when I find myself mellowing.

Most days, I hit the floor running. There’s breakfast to be made, clothes to wash, horses to ride, and kids to turn into decent human beings. The list goes on and on. I’d love to say I handle it all with beauty and grace, but that would be a bit of a stretch. I mostly handle it with gritted teeth and forehead wrinkles. Oh, and coffee. Lots of coffee.

In my family, it’s a tradition for the eldest born to show their lack of mellowness by talking through gritted teeth. My dad had it, I have it, and now I’m starting to notice it in my firstborn as well. We aren’t mad, and we aren’t yelling. And we sure aren’t being mellow. But our teeth are gritted because we mean business. Darn it.

My lack of mellowness was pretty evident the other day when my husband and I were trying to get a group of cows out of the cedars and across a creek crossing during the heat of the day. After two attempts and finally some success, I noticed my jaw was extremely sore. It wasn’t because I had been yelling at the cattle or mad at my husband. It was because my teeth were gritted. I was trying to will those cows across the creek with my own teeth. Who do I think I am? I never said it was a wise trait, just a family trait.

As we were riding back to the trailer, I wondered if I would ever, in my life, get the chance to be mellow. It seemed like a good time was had by people who mellow. They walk around without a care in the world. About that time, Bog Country walked up to a little creek with a more-than-steep bank. I remembered that water wasn’t his favorite thing to cross, because the last time we did it together, he lunged so hard I slipped out of the saddle and landed on his rump. I wasn’t eager to repeat history, so I stepped off of him and decided I’d get my boots wet if it meant leading him across instead of riding.

As I was climbing up the bank, trying not to get mauled by the big creature behind me, I turned around and watched him delicately place his hoof in the creek and cross it like a perfect gentleman. Mellowed.

I was encouraged, to say the least. If this big, swift, and athletic creature could learn to mellow, maybe I could too. The more I thought about it, though, I decided that now is not the time for me to mellow. I have kids to raise, a husband to encourage, and cattle to move. Being “mellow” isn’t exactly a personality trait that will help me get all those things done efficiently.

One of these days, I’ll look up and find myself sitting on the porch, drinking iced tea with a little sugar in it (because that’s what calm people do), and my grass will be a little too tall, and, Lord willing, my grandkids will be playing in puddles I would’ve never let my own kids play in. Everyone will look at me and laugh and say, “Man! Has she mellowed?” And I’ll laugh, through gritted teeth, and say, “Yes, it came with time.”