“They both fell down the hill on their way to our house. They are fine, but both came over the hill sobbing…”

These are the sorts of texts I get from my sister when I send my kids over to play with their cousins. This time was different, however, because they begged to bring their bikes, and, well, you can deduce what happened from there. I knew I should have wrapped them in bubble wrap.

Being a country kid with a bike on these hilly, gravel roads makes for a different type of childhood, one that inevitably scars you for life on your elbows and knee caps and under your chin. Ask any kid raised rural and they will likely have a little piece of rock wedged permanently under their skin.

 

And my kids, they don’t really have a chance, there are only hills around here, the first one they have to climb just to get out of the yard. But they were determined to make the trek, failing to mention that Rosie, my five-year-old, can’t work the hand brakes on her new bike. Like, her hand won’t reach. Which explains why, at the downhill, dirt road cut across, Rosie got going too fast and (in her big sister’s words) faceplanted at the bottom. And then, in solidarity, or maybe more like panic, Edie decided not to move to avoid her, but to crash as well, lifting her chin to avoid the faceplant and managing only to run over the tips of her little sister’s finger (I’m paraphrasing here from the report I received when I got home).

My husband, who was working in the garage at the time, heard a side-by-side come down the road and turned around to find my little sister delivering two little dirt balls soaked in tears (and a little blood. Edie wants to make sure we all know there was blood.)

Oh man, if that isn’t going to become a core memory, nothing will. I have a similar one of my own from when I was about Edie’s age. My best friend and I decided to take her parents’ 1980s style skinny tired bikes with handlebar brakes and seats that were set too high for us a mile and a half to the neighbor’s. All went well on the flat highway, standing up to pedal the whole way, but the image of my friend gaining speed on the steep downhill stretch on the gravel road, topping out at 75 MPH before those skinny tires slipped out from under her and sent her little body scrape-bouncing across the rocks, still haunts my dreams.

Yes, the rite of passage of summer kids riding bikes with friends on quiet suburban streets hits different out at the ranch, just like most things. Like make sure you wear shoes to the playground in back because the Canadian thistle is bad this year. And watch out for cow pies, they got in the yard again last night. Wear shorts at your own risk when you’re climbing that rock hill. Check for ticks when you come inside. Make sure you put the frogs back in the dam when you’re done with them.

Quit bringing pet grasshoppers in the house. Watch for snakes.

Test your brakes…

“That bike ride was traumatic” I texted my sister last night before bed after administering an ice pack to Edie’s wrist.

“I bet Edie still hasn’t recovered,” she texted back. “They were covered in dust from head to toe!”

“You should have seen the bathtub!” I replied.

Happy mid-July. If you need me I’ll be administering band-aids and bug spray.

We’re getting packed up this morning to head to the Minnesota Lake for our 4th of July traditions. I’ve been so busy with family and getting work squared away that I’m late on sharing and late with the podcast. We’ll see if Chad and I get a chance to sit down and catch up over coffee once we get there. I’ve only seen him in passing recently, and last night over steaks playing “would you rather” with the girls…

The girls had another little rodeo in town on Thursday, and so we caught up in the pickup after he met us in town and took us home. But not before I convinced everyone we needed burgers and ice cream. I like a treat after I survive the stress of a thousand little kids running around on horses in 80 degree weather. I’m the mom yelling ‘careful!’ as if kids even know what careful is. They all did great. Slow and steady and learning. These old horses are earning their halos, and so the most fun part continues to be riding them around the rodeo grounds with their best friends.

Anyway, I better get myself ready so we get to the lake before sunset! Enjoy this week’s column about a memory tied to my favorite old horse.

Ready for the Fair

County fairs are in full swing across the state, and that means 4-H families are kicking it in high gear, putting the final varnish on the woodworking project or staying up late to get the quilt done, wondering why they’ve committed to 12 projects plus a pig and a steer when they also have family visiting and hay to put up.

Our county fair has come and gone, taking with it all the nostalgia, new memories and lessons you can pack into three days. This year, our McKenzie County Fair took place at brand-new fairgrounds in a brand-new facility, so the 4-H kids got to skip the part where they spent an entire day weed eating around the bunny barn, and scraping and repainting the livestock pens. This year, and for years to come, our kids will be showing their goats and cookie bars in air conditioning under a solid roof that doesn’t leak in a steel building that won’t need fresh paint, leaving us to say, “kids these days don’t know how good they have it.”

My oldest daughter, Edie, took her drawing, sewing and fairy garden projects to town to receive rainbow ribbons as a Cloverbud, while my little sister and I sat behind judges’ tables and interviewed our community kids about their photography projects. Her 6-year-old daughter, Ada, brought in chocolate chip cookies, dressed in her white shirt and nicest jeans. Her very first 4-H experience had her sitting and nibbling cookies with the Cloverbud judge who was handing out those rainbow ribbons like gold, never having to think about how a red ribbon might crush a 4-H dream, no matter that the bean plant was broken and taped back together. No matter that the crocus was a bit out of focus. My little sister and I craned our necks to try to hear how she answered the questions.

“What was the hardest part about this project?”

“Cracking the eggs,” little Ada said between bites, then off she went with her grandma and cousins to check out the big turkeys in the pens and read all the names on the rabbit cages. Next year, mark my words, that little girl will be showing a chicken. She’s an animal girl, and 4-H was made for animal girls.

This reminds me of a photo that I dig out of the archives during this time of year. It’s a gem of a snapshot of me, at about 11 years old, my crisp white button-up tucked into my Wrangler jeans, my straw hat pulled down as close to my eyes as possible. I’m holding tight to my red mare’s lead rope with my little sister, about 6 years old, standing beside me. We were both looking too serious for the occasion, but then again, it was a serious occasion. It was 4-H horse show day, and we were fresh off the ranch — where we likely spent the evening before washing my old horse, Rindy, in the backyard with Mane and Tail shampoo, a brush and a hose spraying freezing cold water.

I would have put on my shorts and boots and worked to convince my little sister to hold Rindy’s halter rope while the horse was busy munching on as much lush, green grass as she could. My little sister, enthused initially, likely started to get annoyed by the whole deal, the sun a little too hot on her already rosy cheeks, the bees getting dangerously close. She probably abandoned ship after a couple arguments about it, and then I would have been out there finishing the job, picking off the packed-on dirt and yellow fly eggs horses get on their legs up in these parts. I’d stand back, pleased with the work I did and excited to show my horse in the big arena and ride her in the parade, thinking she never looked so good, her red coat glistening in the sun.

Then, I likely took her down to the barnyard to give her a munch of grain, telling her I’d see her in the morning before walking back up the road, reciting in my head all the parts of a horse I could remember in case I was asked. I hated to be caught off guard not knowing horse things.

Overnight, while I tossed and turned, it likely rained, soaking the ground just enough to make the barnyard muddy. I would have woken up bright and early with a nervous tummy, pulled my fuzzy hair in a low ponytail and tucked that white shirt into the blue boy cut Wrangler jeans dad picked up for me at the Cenex, the uniform of a champion. I would have eaten a few bites of cereal at the counter because mom insisted and then headed to the barn trailing behind my dad, my little sister at my heels, ready to retrieve my glistening horse and get her and her fancy halter loaded up in the trailer, only to find that she had taken advantage of the mud the rain produced, rolling in it thoroughly, letting the clay form a thick crust on her back.

Maybe this scenario is the reason for our serious expressions in that picture. Or maybe I was just nervous. But it looks like we got it worked out, because dang, we look good, all of us, especially that mare, all polished up and — despite the trials it took to get us there — ready for the fair.