On Friday evening we took a ride through the east pasture checking cows. The sky turned from blue to pink in front of our eyes and a small storm pushed through.We caught the breeze but didn’t get caught in the rain.
We caught the juneberries and the raspberries before the birds.
We caught Pops over the hill filling his mouth and his pocket and we were caught in one of the greatest things about living on this place.
Today I will attempt Juneberry pie because Husband packed his saddlebags and the breeze is blowing nice through the kitchen windows and it’s Sunday.
This is the kind of life I like to talk about. The kind of things I moved back here for. Sunsets and wildflowers and the sleek back of horses and fat happy cattle and Sundays and family.
These are all part of my reality.
But so is the dust kicked up by trucks tending to the oil well a mile down the road and the slick mud they make when it rains.
Sometimes I get stuck on my way out of this place.
Sometimes my car breaks down and so does our pickup on the way to get it all fixed. Sometimes the price of progress means you won’t possibly make it to your appointment on time.
And sometimes, after all that, one of those big trucks kicks up a big rock and you get another big chip to add to the 27 you already have in your windshield.
Sometimes I use my middle finger and think, hell, it’d be easier to just ride my horse out of here.
Sometimes it rains like hell and I’m reminded that I’m not perfect and neither is this place.
Sunday Column: Some days the Bakken ain’t so rockin’
By Jessie Veeder
I’m not perfect and neither is this place.