Ice, rocks, slippery shoes and a sweeper thing.

Posted on March 7, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Little known fact: Curling is a sport.

An Olympic one.

Another little known fact: I have curled. Once.

Not so little known fact: I am not an Olympian.

And I have no idea what these people are doing.

But curling is a part of my life. Well, at least it is once a year.

Because husband and I have on our life schedule, you know, the one that we all keep with the holidays and birthdays and big events penciled in, a weekend titled “Curling Extravaganza.” And it is a weekend that hasn’t been missed for a good four to five years.

See, my sister in-law married a Canadian, a great man who grew up in the friendly, neighboring country to the north. And if you were ever wondering how people up in the north country keep themselves entertained during the winter months without mountains to ski down, I have two words that I believe to be quite accurate considering my experience and close proximity to Canadians and their fine country:

Ice Slabs.

And up here in North Dakota we are practically Canadians anyway (and proud to display the maple leaf flag) so the art of ice hockey and curling has trickled down a bit to the U.S.–well at least a few miles anyway.

And so with the merging of our fine families, curling entered my life.

But before I go any further, I suppose I better attempt to describe to you, if you aren’t already enlightened, what curling actually involves. And because there is nobody around to help coach me through it, you will have to hear it in my own words. Ok.

Curling is:

One ice slab, painted with red and blue lines and circles
Sixteen (8 to each team) red and blue 42 lb rocks or “stones” made out of solid, polished granite.

Two teams of four decked out in thermal type clothing and something I like to call a slippery shoe holding a broom-sweeper looking thing. I suggested helmets, but apparently that isn’t part of the dress code.

The sweeper thing...

The slippery shoe. Typically worn on the right or left foot. Shown here on the shoulder. Although I didn't ask, I am assuming that is where they put it when not in use...or just to confuse people like me

The team...no helmets.

Some hollering
Yes, it is a spectator sport...
Lots of laughing and quite a bit of beer

Beer, mixed drinks...whatever. That's what cup holders are for.

Ok, got it?

So you take all of the above ingredients and combine them to get to the object of the game, which appears to me to be a bit like shuffleboard on ice, although I have no idea how to play shuffleboard either.

But the point is that each team takes turns sliding the rocks across the slab of ice to land them as close as they can to the “house,” which is somewhere in the blue and red target on either end of the slab.

They use the broom looking thing to sweep the space in front of the rock in order to melt the bumpy ice and keep the rock moving where they prefer the rock go.

And they want to rock to go to the center of the target. Because that’s how you accumulate points–the team with the rocks resting closest to the center of the target at the conclusion of the round, or “end,” gets points (how many points is something I have yet to figure out).

An “end” is completed when each team is finished throwing their rocks.

And the team with the most points at the conclusion of the game wins.

They tell me there are eight or ten ends in each game…but maybe there are more…

They tell me it’s easy.

I tell them I’ll be at the bar.

Yeah, there's a bar at the curling club...

Anyway, I am confused just trying to briefly explain the logistics to you, so I can’t imagine that you have continued reading….

But if you’re still with me and feel like you might really want to learn how to play, I’ll give you my father-in-law’s phone number and he will be more than happy to explain. Just make sure you have a good three to eight hours to spare. Or you can click here to learn more than I will ever know about the great sport.

But there is one thing I do know: A curling tournament is called a bonspiel. And that is where we were this weekend. At a bonspiel where spirited northerners gather to curl–Canadians, North Dakotans, young, old, men, women, experts, athletically challenged and everyone in between. Some of the teams that attend have been together for years and traveled to enough bonspiels together to justify purchasing matching shirts. Some teams only curl together once a year. Some teams consist of relatives and best friends. Some relatives are friendly rivals because there is no way they can exist on the same team. But all teams compete with one thing in mind–the love of the strategy and friendly competition and camaraderie.

And that’s my favorite part about the sport. Because even at its highest level, this attitude prevails.

So here is where I share with you one more little known fact: The USA Curling National Championships were held in my college town of Grand Forks, ND in 2004 and I was asked to sing the National Anthem. I did and I am pretty sure it aired on like ESPN 24 and that is as close to famous as I’ll ever come.

Anyway, that was also my first experience with the sport. As a public relations student at the time of the tournament we took the bonspiel on as part of a professional PR project. I remember asking the competitors at this insanely successful level, what was so special about curling, and every competitor, young and old, replied: “it’s the people.”

An action shot of one of my favorite people...my sister-in-law...

And that is my favorite part about the sport–it just doesn’t matter who you are because at the end of the day all the competitors really want to do is get together, get out of the house and laugh over beer and friendly competition.

They don’t care if you just rolled in off of the ranch in your dorky boots and wool cap. They are so friendly and make it look so easy that you actually believe this is a sport you could be good at. And they convince you to put on the slippery shoe and grab a broom thing and give it a try.

A bin of sweeper things...

So you do. And you fling that 42 lb rock across the ice slab sending it off into the wild blue yonder or over into the other lane while you try to gain your balance on the ice that you didn’t believe to be so slippery just a moment ago. And so you do it again, with coaching from both teams, concentrating so hard on staying standing that you have no idea what the score is or how many “ends” you’ve played or why you chose to wear these ridiculous snow boots today or who is on your team and why is everyone walking towards the door and shaking hands leaving you standing on the far side of the slab yelling “Hey guys, is it over? Hheeeyyya gguuuyyyyaaasss!’

And when you finally make it to the other end of the rink (rink, is it called a rink?) they hand you beer to take the edge off while they tell you that you have just curled (for your first time ever) against the World Junior Champions and assisted your new-found team in losing so bad they decided to quit early.

Then you laugh and go upstairs and a have a few more beers in preparation to redeem yourself at a couple of sports you actually know something about.

Karaoke.

And dancing.

I never fail to kill them with the dancing.

That may or may not have happened to someone I know at some point in time.

Thanks for another successful curling extravaganza Williston Basin Curling Club.

Until next year, I’ll be on the frozen dam out back practicing with my broom and prairie rock, preparing to blow those Junior World American Canadian Champions of the Universe curlers out of the frozen water.

I guess I better get shoveling.

The colors of the season…

Posted on March 4, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Not a palm tree...

My mom and pops went to Jamaica for a week.

While they were basking in the rays of 80+ degree weather, jumping from cliffs, swimming with the fishies and enjoying one or two cocktails while floating in a pool, husband and I had everything under control back here at the ranch.

Well everything except the severe winter weather advisory that led to a 24 hour power outage which resulted in the mis-fire of mom and pops’ furnace when the electricity was finally restored. And it just so happens that husband’s favorite pastime is fixing things (he has to do it a lot considering the walking disaster he married) but after one to two hours standing in front of the mysterious mechanism, scratching his head, tinkering with wires and searching for that elusive reset button while standing inside a house that was reaching thirty degrees, even Mr.Fixit husband and his electrician father on the other end of the phone line were utterly defeated by the thing.

Not ocean waves

So husband moved on to the next conundrum: removing porcupine quills from the snout of their dog left in our care. And I went for the space heaters and the phone to call the furnace guy.

And then we sat in their hot tub and drank their wine and called them names behind their backs.

But all’s well that ends well. Especially when you find that hidden furnace button, save the dog and throw away the empty wine bottles in time for your parents to come home with tanned skin, beaded hair and a new accent.

Ya Mon

And so we went over to their house on Monday evening to eat steak dinner and hear their stories and look at their pictures and see that video of the cliff jump.

And now I’m colder than ever.

Remember when it looked like this around here?

Remember when these things grew out of the ground, looking all colorful and happy and bright?

Remember when I could open the windows and let the breeze blow through the house while I milled around in my short shorts and tank top?

Remember when I slid down the clay butte in my pajamas in the middle of the night and scraped up my ass and my hands and my feet, but at least I didn’t get frost bite?

The evidence...

Waaaahhhhh…hurry up summer!

Don’t get me wrong, no matter the season I am so inspired by this land around me. It changes every day and comes up with different ways to awe me, but this last week I have been dreaming in color. The colors that I haven’t seen for a while.

Green.

Pink.

Orange.

Yellow.

Yellow Flowers

Purple.

So after sitting at my desk all day yesterday staring at the computer screen trying to complete a project while banging my head against the wall learning a new program, my eyes were squinty, my throat was dry, my hair was standing on end and I smelled like bad attitude.

Growl...

So I bundled up and went outside to take some photos. Because I have found photography has become my new therapy– it’s teaching me to look for the beauty and interest in the small, ordinary big-picture things.

I pulled on my long underwear, strapped on the old snow shoes, tied on the neckerchief and stepped outside into my wild backyard.

Maybe I’ll see those elk in the fields pops was talking about.

Maybe I’ll see a deer or a rabbit or coyote or, if I walk far enough, maybe I can catch a glimpse of those bison on the hill.

Maybe I’ll walk up to the horses. Maybe I’ll sit and listen to the wind, maybe I’ll…

…freeze to death.

Shit, it was cold.

I made it about a quarter of a mile before I really realized it and then, once decided, couldn’t run for cover soon enough. But I was determined to be inspired.

Determined.

So I started the pickup and loaded my fluffy self up in there. I was going to take a drive. I was going to find me some wildlife, some sparkle, some shine, something to lift my spirits.

I drove down the back road, radio off, peering from side to side, slowing at the corners, looking in all of the washouts and coulees where I know the deer lay, where the birds might be, where the elk might saunter through, hoping for a jack-rabbit, a cow, a neighbor, anything to cross my path…

But it seemed that it was just me out here on the empty road, in the quiet cold air, in the cab of my pickup feeling, I’ll admit, kind of alone in this season that seems to be dragging us all to our breaking point…

So I turned around to head back home in the…

white…

gray…

brown…

But just as I was giving up and resigning to the season and the endless wait for spring– getting after myself for being one of those northerners who complains about the winter weather as if I wasn’t expecting it, I was put back in my place by one thing that makes me fall in love with my world over and over again…

the one thing that never lets me down…

And as the sun moved down over the horizon, it slowly gave to me all the colors I’ve been missing, all the sparkle and shine and inspiration this pasty northern girl needed at a time like this, saving me from myself once again.

And so it will be summer again. And this…

will finally get dressed already…

But until then, I’ve got the sun and the sky. And the sky’s got my back.

Oh, I know Jamaica has the sky too, but I just think it feels and looks better out here…

…you know, where the frozen ones don’t take it for granted.

The Red Guitar

Posted on March 2, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I love guitars. I love the way they look sitting in the corner of a house, laid out on the bed, placed carefully in their cases or on display in a music store.

I love how they feel in my hands. The new ones shiny with promise of the music that is to come, the stories it might help you tell, and the places it could take you. The old guitars worn from years of picking, dinged up from bar bands and campfires and teaching a child to play.

And I love how they sound, each one a little unique, a little brighter, a little lower, a little cheaper, a little more rich and full. I love how they transport me, no matter if I am behind the sound or sitting in front of it swaying to the rhythm it creates, to a place so full of heart and passion and loneliness and fulfillment and family and home and leaving and heartache. A place I’ve always had in me.

Because you know how everyone has a first memory? That moment you look back on where you were the youngest version of yourself you knew. Maybe it’s only a few moments in time, but it was so powerful that you hang onto it hard and forever, whether you want to or not.

That memory is a guitar to me…

…dancing in the basement of our old house while my dad played his red Guild and sang. I don’t remember the song, or maybe I do, it doesn’t matter. But I remember the brown shag carpet. I remember how he wore his hair a little long. I remember how his wide, leathery fingers eclipsed the strings at the neck of that guitar. I remember how he swayed back and forth and tapped his foot, just a little bit off of the rhythm of the song he was singing and picking—the same way he does to this day. And I remember wanting to play. Wanting him to let me pluck the strings on my own, wanting my hands to grow a little bigger so I could make the music come from that mysterious instrument. That beautiful, red guitar.

And the instrument, the guitar, still remains a mystery to me. Even though I have been playing in one form or another since I was twelve years old, it still perplexes me that six strings touched the right way can produce sounds that make you laugh and cry and tap your toes or sing words you didn’t even know you had in you out to the world. It’s amazing to me that the sounds that come out of the body made of wood and metal and shine can be so different depending on who is touching it, who is sitting behind the instrument. I am in awe that a guitar can transform a campfire or a living room or a makeshift stage into a world where where love is lost and found, real cowboys still exist, babies fall asleep peacefully, summer always stays….

Yes, the guitar remains elusive to me even though every person in my family, as a sort of right of passage, owns their own version of the instrument and tucks it away in their basement or in their bedroom closet or props it up next to the piano or next to the living room couch. It is a necessity, whether or not you ever learn to play it, you need it there next to you in case you are ever so inclined—because the music is so unpredictable.

I have had in my possession a number of guitars in my short 27 years. All given to me by my dad based on his judgment on what would be the best fit for me. My first was a small guitar made for beginners that came in a box and wound up in my little sister’s room after I graduated to the next level: a cheap guitar with soft strings upon which I practiced strumming and singing “Amarillo by Morning” until my little fingers and voice were raw.

When I proved that I had an interest in the instrument that wasn’t going to waver anytime soon, I consulted with my dad and we agreed to trade my saxophone, the one I would pretend to play in band class, for a real guitar (because it was quite apparent that I lacked any Kenny G style skills and probably never would). And so I acquired the green Takamine and started writing songs, thinking maybe I could be a real musician behind this guitar. Maybe.

And I kept playing that Takamine in my bedroom. And then that guitar and I had our first real gig playing songs that I wrote and songs that I loved. Then we did it again and again until it was time to record them and time for a new guitar. Because I had outgrown the instrument in sound and purpose.

So another Takamine with a sunburst on its body took me on through high school and into my first year of university where I played in coffeehouses and bars around the small college town. And when the call came about traveling and working on another album I was set to go. I had my big girl guitar, it would work just fine.

I was excited and nervous and anxious about the whole thing….

Then one day after a few of my first on-the-road gigs, I came back home and my dad placed into my hands his Taylor, the guitar I had coveted and loved and snuck to the back room to play by the moonlight whenever I had a chance. He loved that guitar, and he placed it in my hands.

I took it with me.

And if there is ever anything I go back into a burning building for, it will be that guitar.

But if there is anything I love more than that Taylor it is that red Guild. And for a while I thought I would never see it again, you know, because a musician like my dad is known to trade guitars for amps and other guitars. And that red Guild was out of our lives for a while, during the time I was falling for the Taylor.

But damned if dad didn’t get it back in the last few years and pass it along through his hands again to my little sister when she went off to college.

And that red guitar is irreplaceable to her, allowing her to play and sing out loud the words to songs that mean something to her. And when she’s sitting behind that guitar so far away from the buttes of the ranch, maybe a little lost and frustrated some days with life and the pursuit of finding herself, she can close her eyes and strum and take a deep breath and hear the sounds of home.

And so l’ll tell you, all of the guitars I have ever possessed have given me something–confidence, my first song, a stronger voice. But I watch my little sister behind that red Guild, the very same guitar that took my dad on the road in bar bands and coffeehouses, that let loose the music inside my heart when he played it for me so long ago, that brings two sisters together in song, voices blending, toes tapping, and I am overwhelmed with the spirt of that instrument.

And I realize that red guitar, the one that played the first chord I have ever heard, the one that found us again strumming the music of home, the one that I never even called mine, has been my greatest gift.