Party ’till the people come home…

The ranch in summer. Its lush and green and yellow and smells of vegetation and clover and dirt and the backs of horses. Its been warm and sticky during the day and cool at night, perfect timing for pulling the windows open and laying on top of the sheets in my jammies while I read Barbara Kingsolver’s “Prodigal Summer” or, if I’m feeling particularly vegged-out and relaxed, watch the latest episodes of “So You Think You Can Dance…” (Hey, my interests are broad, don’t judge–I think it might be the best show on television.)

Anyway, yes, summer at the ranch. It’s quite lovely most of the time. Even more so when you are blessed with a day of rain in the beginning of August guaranteeing the countryside a few more weeks of green.

That was the case on Friday. It was gloomy and rainy all day and I was happy knowing that I didn’t have to water my flowers, and actually, come to think of it, I never really had to water them at all this summer.

Yes, and all of this moisture has been great for the lawn too, you know, the lawn I battled with in the beginning of June. Because once I got the forest knocked down, husband and I have been maintaining it, grooming it, weed whacking the crap out of it, and admiring our neon green, lush, nearly town-material lawn that surrounds the barn and almost distracts from the broken down garage.

Things were going well. We are on the downslope of summer and the lawn was still immaculate.

So I was kinda happy with the rain on Friday. I was pleased with the cool down and the chance to stay inside, eat husband’s homemade knoephla soup, and write some new music. And the next day, while it was still a drizzle, husband and I headed out the door to take an engineering student who was visiting from Sweden on a tour of the oil field activity in the area.

We had a great day planned for him and I was excited to learn about what husband does all day (besides driving around and checking on things…which is the explanation I have been giving to friends and family for the past three years…)  It was also nice to get to know someone our age from across the ocean and learn that we have so much in common over one of the best steaks I’ve ever had cooked for me at a restaurant. Seriously, if you haven’t been to The Bison Room in New Town, NDmake a date with your spouse, your gram, your kids, your best friend, yourself, whatever, but get there. They know what they’re doing. Ok, so there’s my western North Dakota traveling/tourist tip for you, now on with my captivating and intense story…

So there I was sitting shotgun in husband’s pickup at 8:30 pm on our way back to the ranch. I was full and pleased and ready for a nice Sunday spent maybe, oh, I don’t know, picking chokecherries, riding, cleaning, reading or mowing the lawn.

But it turns out the cows had other plans for us.

Because while we were out frolicking in the oil field and probably feasting on one of their cousins for dinner, the cows were waiting in the bushes for our taillights to disappear over the hill and out of sight. See, on their schedule was a picnic. A picnic of short, lush, well groomed, green grass growing before their big, brown eyes. So as soon as we hit the highway they skipped on over, pulled out their lawn chairs and coolers, staked out the volleyball net, the croquet set, the Norwegian horseshoes, and proceeded to have themselves a regular old block party…all 150 women, their offspring and their two boyfriends.

And all in my, lush, beautiful, neon green, rain-saturated yard.

I’ll tell you they must have been looking for us, you know, to invite us to the festivities, because the evidence of their attempts to break in were in the deep footprints dug in right up to the basement door, and the living room window, and the bathroom window, and the bedroom window. They really didn’t want us to miss it. I mean, I’m sure croquet is more fun when you invite guests with opposable thumbs.

And judging by the size and numbers of plops in my yard, I am guessing the eating was as good as their games.

Shit.


Shit.

Shit.

It smells like shit.

That’s what I said when we pulled into the yard in the dark and I stepped out of the pickup and into a fresh cow pie.

And as I scuffled my way to the front door, sniffing the pungent air, the illumination from the barnyard light revealed small reflections on water puddles in the lower yard, right next to the retaining wall and the flowers my grandmother planted that, um, used to be there…what the hell?

Is that mud?

Is that water sitting in deep crevices shaped like hundreds and hundreds of hoof prints?

Is that poop? I keep stepping in poop? Is it? I can’t see?!!

Where are the damn dogs?

Snort, snort, slobber, slobber, yawn, whap, whap, whap.

Oh, there they are. Sleeping on the deck.

I growled to husband as we deduced that all signs pointed to a flaw in the system. The system where you have dogs on a ranch to keep the cows out of the yard.

Or to help you get them out of the heavy brush when you’re riding.

Or to assist you as you herd them through a gate.

That would be the idea of a cow dog.

But, oh yeah, that’s right. We don’t have cow dogs. We have dogs whose only purpose is to eat, sleep, poop in front of the stoop, drag dead things to the deck in front of our door and apparently party with the cows.


Whhhaaaaaaa!

Wwhhhyyyyyyaaaaaa!

3,000 acres and you party at my house?

Countless energy of screaming at you two dogs to get back, to stop chasing the damn cows, and you choose this day, these six hours, to actually obey a rule!!!

Hours spent in the sweltering sun clipping and whacking and working to create an acceptable carpet of grass and all I’m left with is three thousand cow plops, ankle deep mud, an invasion of flies and a bad farmer’s tan???!!!

I stormed inside and booked a flight to  Sweden. Because I have a new friend there and he said we could come to visit anytime.

So I hope you’ll stick with me on my journey abroad and check out my adventures coming soon on my new blog: Meanwhile, back in Stockholm…

Oh, and if you love me,  do me a favor tonight…eat beef!

20 thoughts on “Party ’till the people come home…

  1. Uff’da, the cow’s drove you to Sweden instead of driving you to drink? Although if I had some xtra time and money, Sweden would be nice but your beautiful yard looks pretty crappy. Whenever I asked questions as a kid, things weren’t going to happen unless the cow’s came home(virtually never) but in your case, this wouldn’t have worked. LOL. Wishing you a lovely week. Nicole 🙂

  2. Do you live in my house? Everything you said happens here too. BTW, why is it when the grass is belly deep & good water is plentiful they think they MUST get out? We have the best pasture & water this year and almost daily one of the neighbors has to call to inform us of these darn critters on the roam. (One day 3 neighbors called to inform us of 3 different pastures. CRUD!) Thanks for letting us know that we are not alone.

  3. Oy, sorry about your lawn. We tried to grow a few almond trees that were stampeded when the bulls got out… It’s definitely a strange sight to look out the window and see cattle grazing in your yard, isn’t it?! If only they’d pick up after themselves.
    We will eat beef tonight in your honor.

  4. I’ve been absent from blogging for quite a lengthy bit of time as my family moved from CT to DC. Maybe flights are cheaper to Fargo from here! So, I’ve missed out on a lot with your blog and many others, but I am glad to be back and to see more of your wonderful photos. Shit and all. Made me laugh. Can’t wait to see the photos from Sweden!

    (I miss my Norwegian cousins out in Fargo, people who know what it means and how to use Uff Da! I think I welled up when I saw it as the first word used in your first comment!)

    Off to make supper … hamburgers!

  5. EVERYTHING happens for a reason. Be sure to let us know what miracle wll occur on down the road that can be directly attributed to “The day the cows destroyed the yard”. It will happen I promise you.
    Im not eating beef but I am appreciating my mowed crabgrass more than ever:-) Thanks

  6. On a positive note …your yard is going to be REALLY green next year.

    I remember days like this … and Herefords plowing through freshly washed clothes on the line so they could help themselves to some sweet grass along the Carragana row. Ugh. I feel your pain.

    Hang in there, MJ

    • Oh man, that takes the cake right there…and also reminds me of a time when I was younger and I came home to the cows trampling all over my bike…it was never the same…shit…now I’m mad all over again. Thanks for sharing your misery with me, it doesn’t make the grass grow back, but misery loves company 🙂

  7. Pingback: Margaritas/mimosa…and get me on a horse… « Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

  8. Pingback: This year’s story… « Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s