I can’t be your warmer breeze
no, I can’t be her right now
I can’t be your brown worn hands
damp hair, your sweaty brow
I can’t be the evening mist
or the clouds that roll on by
I can’t be your blades of grass
the lightning in your sky
I cannot be barefoot
or younger than today
can’t be your rain boots or your fishing pole
or make the summer stay
But I can stand beside you
under skies of gray and white
and on the long and starlit nights
I’ll be your wool cap and your overcoat
your coffee and the broth in which your dumplings float
I will wrap my arms around where your scarf has been
wrap them tight around your neck until we’re warm again
So I made it home alive. I know some of you were worried seeing as the last time you heard from me I was putting chili in a Tupperwear container and requesting your prayers on my way out the door to hit the slopes of Minnesota on the shore of Lake Superior–headed toward music, mayhem and dangerous winter sports.
Yes. I am all about the danger.
So I left the cozy little snow pile that is my corner of the world for another cozy, bigger snow pile across a couple states.
Because sometimes all a girl needs to make it through the winter is a beanie and a much steeper, icy slope to slide down.
…and one of her BFFs…
…a BFF who will sport a union suit and pose with you by the fire just because it’s funny…
And a little sister who will do the same….
…a little sister who I just realized looks a lot like Burt Reynolds…
…oh, and some tinsel…
…and a couple bands who play the fire out of every stringed instrument I’ve ever loved…and then throw in a clogging percussionist just to make sure my heart is nice and melty…
…and of course, some beautiful scenery….
So yes, I made it back to the ranch alive and I would like to tell you that the only time I fell during the entire ski trip was down the steps going out of our condo.
And up the steps at the bar.
And down the hill to the hot tub.
Hmmm, having put that in print, I’m now thinking that’s not such a good thing….
Anyway, other than that, and a couple bruises on my butt from where the lift smacked me multiple times (that damn thing catches me off guard) I am doing pretty good…
…which is more than I can say for my fearless, snowboarding, determined sister…
So I am working on the back to real life thing as we speak. But I have to tell you, the chili was delicious, the company hilarious, the drive treacherous, but we made it across the great state of North Dakota and on up to northern Minnesota, stopping through the most adorable towns where the local men still drink coffee at the Cenex and talk about the weather and the ice fishing and wonder out loud where the road-weary, frizzy haired, bundled up North Dakotans were headed, besides the restroom.
Oh Minnesota, town after town, just like the real life Lake Wobegon.
I love it.
And I love a good road trip that takes me down highways and dirt roads and through towns that remind me of why we need to get out and see and touch and breathe and live in this world.
Because I love where I live and all its familiarity, but I love to leave too, you know, every once in a while. I love the art of packing up my favorite sweaters and socks and jeans and shoes and then realizing that three bags is a ridiculous amount of luggage to bring for three days, so I learn to love the art of unpacking some sweaters and shoes and adding in some leg warmers and six hats and nineteen graphic tees and a banjo…
I love planning our meals and closing up the house tight and singing at the top of my lungs to the music coming out of dashboard speakers. I like sitting close in the cab of a warm vehicle while the trees and farmsteads and snow fly by outside our window as we anticipate our destination and eat handfuls of Cheetos and Skittles and Snickers bars.
Don't judge me, I'm on vacation...
I love that sitting in a car for hours on end is a valid excuse to eat handfuls of Cheetos and Skittles and Snickers bars.
And I love to arrive in a place I have never been and make it my home for a few days. I like to reside in a schedule that includes decisions like: “Should I take a nap?” “When should we eat?” “What kind of cocktail should I invent?” “Should we sit in the hottub tonight?” “What games should we play?” “When should we hit the slopes?” and “Do I really need to shower?”
I like the feeling of making plans with traveling partners hand picked as the cream of the crop who have the same intentions of a casual adventure laced with chips and cheese and fresh air and not picking up after ourselves…
…you know, the people who applaud and laugh until they pee a little when you slide on your ass all the way down a slippery flight of stairs in your first attempt to enter the mountain air to hit the slopes. Yes, they laugh hysterically at you and your fresh bruise, but only after they make sure you are not bleeding profusely.
And as much as I like to be surrounded by the people I adore who I can count on to peel my sorry ass off of the frozen ground and carry my stuff as I limp it off, I like the idea of going somewhere on a mission, somewhere I am surrounded by strangers on the same mission to see, to listen, to take pictures and conquer mountains and have a cocktail or two and laugh until they pee.
Which got me thinking a bit about time well spent as we were making the twelve hour drive back to the ranch on Sunday through a few blizzards and the darkness. Because when most people around here visualize a vacation, especially in the dead of winter, they think of going somewhere with sandy beaches and warm sunshine and Cabana boys with bottles of sunscreen waiting for them. I don’t think many consider driving themselves and a bowl full of chili to someplace slightly colder with a bit more snow and then actually choosing to hang out and frolic in the weather.
But you know, I couldn’t have been warmer by that fireplace sharing stories and dealing cards. I couldn’t have laughed harder as husband tapped his toes to the beat of a bluegrass band and smiled for the camera as all of the worries about a new house, a business plan and work on Monday melted away under his blue snowsuit.
I couldn’t have been more at ease dangling my legs, attached to skis, on a lift moving me up a mountain…
…well, I take that back, I could have been more at ease, but for a girl who doesn’t like heights, I think stifling my screaming was as good as it gets…
This is my "I'm not scared" face...
And I couldn’t have been happier knowing that there are places, wonderful places in this world with snow covered trees and lakes that lick miles and miles of rugged shores dotted with small towns full of great, simple people who don’t ask for much but a little time to play. I couldn’t feel better knowing that there are people who have music inside them who choose to share it with joy and foot stomping gladness out of their mouths or a banjo or tapping feet and into an evening filled with listening ears. I couldn’t be more intrigued by the idea that the big wide world is mine to see, mine to hear, mine to fall down and lift up and get lost in…
And I can load up my car with my chili and my sweatpants and my shoes and my union suit and my best friends and be there if I want to…
Ok party people, the holidays are officially over here at the ranch and I have dubbed it that way by taking down my beloved tree, tossing the wreath, unplugging the lights and packing my decorations up nice and neat (well, neat enough).
Because I needed to cleanse the holiday, get rid of all of the distraction so I can begin work on my will power.
I mean, the second Christmas at the in-laws over New Years really put to the test just how many cookies and cocktail weenies and shrimps and candy canes and cheese balls a girl could possibly eat without touching a single vegetable unless I found it coated in some sort of cheese or white sauce during the last month—yup, I really pushed the limit of those stretchy pants….
…oh stretchy pants, how I love thee…
Anyway, now is the time. Back to reality. Back to real pants. No more sugar cookies for breakfast. No more cheese ball for lunch. Because in 2 days we are hitting the slopes for a weekend of music and mayhem and physical activity, and I have exactly 48 hours to get in shape, dammit…
See ya next year...
That is what I told husband as I was lugging the Christmas boxes upstairs and instructing him to take the candy cane covered tree out of my sight…
But apparently he had other plans.
Plans that included this chili.
Because what every ski bunny needs after a long day skidding, face-first down the slopes, is a nice hot bowl of chili to ease the pain of her lack of athleticism and grace…and we are making it tonight to take with us…
…and it’s gonna be just the way Cowboy likes it, finally, so pipe down about your aversion to anything above mild and get ready to feel some real heat ok?
Cowboy staring down the spices...concocting plans...loving every minute
Well, at least the northern states’ version of heat. Cowboy would like to apologize in advance to anyone from Texas or New Mexico who knows how to assemble a chili that makes your aunt Edna breathe fire…and like it. This is a German boy’s, crock pot attempt…and it’s damn good–well as good as anything can be without butter and flour.
Ok, hold on to your long underwear, cause Cowboy’s cookin’ snow meltin’, nose de-frostin’, wool sock wearin’ chili. And he ain’t taming it down for no one…especially me.
Step One: First things first
Grab yourself a beer why don’t ya. And an apron that says exactly what you’re thinking. Oh, and a crock pot, or some version of the thing with a lid
Now gather the following ingredients:
1 lb hamburger
1 1/2 lbs stew meat
1 large red onion
8 oz container whole mushrooms
and as many jalapenos you can handle
I can't handle it....!!!!
Brown the hamburger in the crock pot if you have the time and John Wayne is on anyway, or you can just throw it in a pan on the stove. Add some chili powder and salt and pepper if you want
While the hamburger is cooking chop the red onion, mushrooms and jalapenos. (I didn’t get any photos of this cause I was busy finishing off the last of the Christmas fudge, you know, to get it out of sight).
Now throw the hamburger, stew meat (uncooked), onion, mushrooms and jalapenos (add some of the jalapeno juice if you’re feeling brave and daring) in the pot where they can all get acquainted before the real party begins…
Now you’re ready for the hard part–gathering the rest of the ingredients to dump in the pot and stir.
Literally, that is all you do.
And taste.
And smell
And tell yourself over and over what an amazing chef you are…
I think I might even be capable of completing this recipe, if I weren't so distracted by the view...and those damn candy canes
Step 2: Ok, dig in the pantry and pull out the following ingredients:
1 tablespoon minced garlic
Black pepper to taste (a little more than a little but a little less than a lot)
Red pepper to taste (Cowboy says, “Red pepper is a tricky little devil…it doesn’t taste so strong at first, but it’s the after burn that kills ya…ooofff…”)
7 oz can green chilies
28 oz can of baked beans
15 oz can navy beans (drained) (“navy beans, navy beans, navy beans…” Lunch Lady Land? Anyone? Anyone?…)
15 oz can kidney beans (drained)
15 oz can pinto beans (drained)
15 oz can spicy chili beans
15 oz can black beans (drained)
(Cowboy says “You don’t have to use all these beans, but I do cause I like ’em.”)
15 oz can of diced tomatoes
1 tablespoon chili sauce (if you don’t have this you can use Tabasco sauce…Cowboy can’t pronounce the name of this, but made it clear that “it adds a delicious spicy taste to things..anything…says so right on the bottle.”
Oh, and you can add some Cajun seasoning too, if you’re feeling particularly southern today.
And last but not least, of course, the chili powder. Get acquainted with it, cause, as I was told, without it, chili is just a bunch of beans.
Ok, so in no particular order, open your cans and your lids and dump it all in the pot.
Now get that chili powder out of your holster and give it a few generous shakes.
Keep adding until it tastes good to you.
And now for, the secret ingredient: the fresh, whole cherry tomatoes. Which are apparently important and so enticing that I accidentally used a few on my salad for lunch (oh yeah, a salad…this is serious).
Anyway, Cowboy noticed. “Looks like I’m missing 5 to 6 tomatoes,” he said.
To which I replied, “Tomatoes? Tomatoes? Do those look like snickerdoodles?”
So now you add those tomatoes to the chili and mix it all up until you’re happy with it.
Now put that crock pot on low and wait.
Because it wouldn’t be Cowboy’s Kitchen without the wait. And we skipped the butter this time around, so I am sure you’re all thrown for a loop.
If you’re starving, like me, you can bring the concoction to a low boil/simmer for about 1 hour and that should be good enough to eat. But you can’t overcook it. The longer it stews the better.
Cowboy recommends the following, word for word:
“Have all this shit ready in the morning, throw it in a pot, put it on low and eat it for supper…that’s the best way to do it…”
We are going to put it in a Tupperwear, freeze it and transport it a few hundred miles to Lutsen Mountains in Minnesota, where we will fling our bodies down a slippery, ice packed mountain of danger and when we are done we will drink something to take the edge off and listen to some good tunes at a mountain music festival this weekend.
And then enjoy the hell out of this chili.
And I will work on my plan of not breaking every bone in my body, or face skidding, or crying, or panicking.
Or at least escaping death.
Pray for me.
But don’t pray for this chili.
Just make it and you shall be saved.
Or at least warmed up.
And unless you wanna come with us, I’ll see ya when I get back….
We’ll, it’s officially 2011. Like three days in. And while people all over the country were ringing in the new year in fancy outfits, clinking classes filled with bubbly together, wearing cardboard hats while kissing lovers or strangers and then screaming “Happy New Year,” with flushed cheeks as the band or jukebox or the random guy on the saxophone played the appropriate song, I had been sleeping a good 12 to 16 minutes already.
Because apparently that’s what happens when you have enjoyed one or two glasses of wine with the in-laws and then sit down in the living room on the big, fluffy couch with three snuggly, blonde, pink fleece PJ wearing nieces who are undoubtedly on the edge of sleep (I mean really, look at their little faces) and pop on the DVD player to enjoy the gripping, thrilling tale of Tinkerbell and her friends.
And then shut the lights off.
Yup. In about 4.5 seconds father-in-law was snoring so loud I missed the explanation of how Tinkerbell actually wound up trapped in the doll house, so I turned to husband, who surely was following along, and found him in a full on, head tilted back, mouth wide open, fly catching slumber. I looked around the room for any kind of explanation and it soon became clear that all adult bodies had given in. And poking out from under the blankets were three sets of big, blue eyes that appeared to be glued open, careful not to blink because blinking could result in snoozing and they would stand for none of it.
None of it I tell ya. Because Tinkerbell was about to make friends with a real live human girl and they were taking notes, you know, in case they should happen upon a similar situation where they were greeted by a fairy of their own.
Yes, I bought them tutus and ballerina shirts for Christmas...I'm weak, I'm weak...
Yeah, they were so focused on the staying awake thing I guess they couldn’t hear me when I said “Psst..psst…how did Tinkerbell get stuck in there? Where is she taking her? Can she talk? Why can’t the girl hear her? Oh my gosh! I can’t take the suspense….”
And since no one was talking to me in fear of missing a thing and all hope of following a storyline this complicated was lost, I gave into the sleep thing too, drooling a bit on husband’s shoulder and as niece number two laid her head on my lap we became a regular, cuddly pile of love and pink and sweatpants and pajamas.
Best New Year’s I’ve ever had.
Which got me thinking about moments like these, you know the quiet, simple, wonderful, uneventful events in which we exist. See I have had a great year. A full year of hammering and climbing and packing and unpacking and chasing cats and cooking…uh, I mean eating and welcoming babies and making cheese balls and not doing laundry…you know, we’ve been over this. I’ve told you all about those adventures. But as I am thinking back and looking through the three thousand and some photos I have taken over the course of seven months, it occurred to me that I have failed to share with you a few things–a few good stories, a few simple moments, a few of my favorites. Neglected because of their lack of climactic adventure, gripping saga or sentimental story attachment, these snapshots, these breaths of life, these characters surrounding me got filed away under the “August 2010” or “Family” or “Music” folders to be saved for later, saved for another time when they become important to me again.
Well, today’s the day people. Today I present to you my top five favorite moments of 2010:
1)
2)
3)
4)
5)
There, now I’ve told you everything….good day to ya.
Bwahahahahahaaa….
I kid, I kid.
Sorta.
But really, there are some things I failed to share, (that surprisingly didn’t involve that damn pug) even in the middle of every intention to tell you the story…
…of the turkeys I attempted to sneak up on this fall while the boys held my horse and watched, and probably laughed,un-beknownst to me, as I crouched and stepped lightly, moving toward the flock, sure to go unnoticed by the feather brained poultry if only I just stayed low and kept quiet…
…thinking to myself that I gotta get more life in my photography, more game, more feathers, more adventure and less dog…more wild and less flower…more movement and less tree branch…more…more…wow, my legs are burning…I’ve been walking a long time and I’m not getting any closer…
“Hey Jess! Jess!”
A faint voice called my name from the furthest butte…
“Jess..Hey…”
Sounded like pops…
“What, shhh, dad, shhh….”
“Yeah, how far ya gonna go?”
“Shhh…I don’t know gosh…”
I turned around.
I was all alone
Except for the turkeys, who are apparently deceivingly fast, having already taken flight…
…and that voice calling from somewhere…saying something about a horse…
Anyway, so there are the turkeys, in case you were wondering why the only wildlife you get from me wore collars and bridals and had weird names.
Which reminded me of the elk.
The elk that you can’t see here, but is here…
…yeah,way out there in the middle of the shot, a little brown dot in the clearing between the two coulees of bare trees.
Turns out these boys, the ones I rode behind faithfully all the non-snowy season, have eyes, good eyes…
…and I need a longer lens…
…because there were elk all around us that fall evening. We rode a good portion of our land and were kicking them up left and right like cumbersome giants dwarfing the buttes that look so majestic under the hooves of the measly deer.
And I decided I hadn’t really lived until that moment I heard them crashing and clambering through the trees like dinosaurs tearing up my favorite coulee and coming to pose on the skyline on the other side.
Nope, I’d never seen life that grand spring across our humble piece of the prairie…
…a piece of prairie that rang with laughter and memories and children’s footprints this summer as the Veeder family gathered to share the stories these hills could tell, to pick her wildflowers, to roll in her grasses, to feel her heat and let the wind whip through their hair…
…and that ground had never been more alive, the leaves more boastful, rocks so proud. Our little world never felt more love.
So as we reminisced in the summer sun, thinking of our grandparents and aunts and uncles who spent their childhood here, who worked the land and called this home, we felt sure we could feel them there with us as we grabbed at the same earth, smelled the yellow roses she planted and visited the homestead shack where they first settled this place…
So I coaxed Pops to stand in the very same spot, the very same way his father had stood next to the homestead shack in a photo I recall tucked away in an album somewhere.
And here I touched the handles and levers of the old stove and imagined cooking supper between these walls, under this sky…
…and so it was a summer of reminiscing and moving on as I stood under the same sky to say goodbye to a piece of our world, a piece of history that holds the story of this small farming and ranching community who found faith and fellowship under this humble roof in what was sometimes an otherwise lonely existence.
Yes, the summer of 2010 held the last service for our little church along the gravel road, in the middle of the wind swept prairie. And with no hurrah, no confetti or drawn out hymns, the neighborhood gathered in jeans and boots and their Sunday best to say goodbye, have some coffee together and take some of the dishes for crying out loud…
…so I took a chicken shaped sugar dish and wiped my eyes, cause I think I got some dust in them.
Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t tell you about it, but I think it was because there wasn’t much to say except sometimes it seems this world has grown a bit too big for the small things–the things that are too good and pure to make a fuss about the situation…
…like the mist that fell on a summer morning bike ride, clouding my vision enough to convince me that I may have found myself lost…
…lost somewhere a little more magical…
…a little more mysterious…
…a bit more innocent.
No, I didn’t tell you about that either. I didn’t show you what it looks like here when the clouds drop down. I kept it for myself.
Like this wreath I made on my birthday out in the heat of the summer sun using an old rope, fencing wire and grass….
…and these fragile spider webs that were quietly woven in the cracks and crannies of the old red barn, waiting patiently to be discovered by a crazy haired woman with a new camera…
No, I didn’t share these with you either and I don’t know why. But I think it was because I felt like a secret, VIP guest in a microscopic world that I was welcomed into through the lens of my camera and the right kind of light shining through the cracks in the weathered barn.
And maybe I wasn’t ready to admit that I found this sort of thing, the thing we usually swat away with disgust, fascinating and breathtaking…
…and how could I convince you that this commonplace act of preparation and tradition and hard work, is comforting and hopeful to me? How could you possibly understand?
And maybe I just didn’t know how to explain that this, as much as anything else in the world, means home to me…
…or that North Dakota has mountains and they sometimes touch the clouds…
…or that when I came upon this in the pasture one afternoon all I wanted in the entire world was to be one of them…
…to know what it is to appreciate the warm sunshine touching my back and melting the snow…
…and have nothing to do but soak it up.
So there you have it. I didn’t want you to miss a thing, but I know I failed us all on that one. Because no matter how much we try, there is so much we miss.
Even when we work so hard to capture it, to see it, to remember the stories that go along, to remember what your father told you about your grandmother’s cooking, to never forget the day you saw that big buck on the skyline or the name of that wildflower or what your niece’s hair smelled like when she was still four and not quite five no matter how much she wanted to be five, we forget. We tuck those things away telling ourselves we’ll get back to it, but if the story is never told, it cannot be heard.
It can not be passed along.
And maybe that’s ok.
Because we know our stories, the ones we tell about ourselves that are funny and embarrassing and heroic and dignified and dramatic, in the end become a piece of us, a part of who we are.
But those moments when we are alone, where we hold our breath or sit down to make something with our hands, or wipe a tear that no one will ever see–the moments where we are quiet in a world that puts on a show and performs for us every day, how we applaud those small moments, how we exist when no one is looking, those moments matter more than we think. And maybe we don’t have to pass them along to everyone, but maybe we should try to keep those memories of the non-eventful events so we can go back there sometimes, when we need to…
…because maybe that’s what peace is…not the act of searching for a moment of silence or a butterfly in flight or a chance to float on a tranquil sea, but recognizing in your everyday life the small seconds and minutes when your mind is free…and then knowing where to find that memory when you need it.
And if those small seconds and minutes are buried too deep to find right now, don’t worry, I have gathered here for you some of mine…and you can use them anytime…
Wow. It’s December 30th. I just looked down at the little calendar icon thing at the bottom of my computer screen and it screamed at me–“It’s almost the end of a whirlwind year lady! It’s almost the beginning of 365 days of new adventure ahead. You should probably reflect on this!”
I jumped right out of my neckerchief at the thought, and since I’m not going anywhere today because nature is ringing in the New Year with yet another blizzard and more drifts of snow blocking my driveway, I figured now is as good of time as any to let you all know something about me.
I am a grateful, frizzy haired, pug loving, frozen and slightly more squishy thanks to the holiday cookies lady.
I am thankful.
I am thrilled and hopeful and full of love and nerves and excitement and overwhelmed…not only at the thought of a year full of changes and decisions and heartbreak and joy and manual labor at my back, but for the one ahead.
The one ahead that is sure to bring all of those things and more…especially that manual labor stuff.
But before I look ahead with you all, ahead to a year where I hope I will see the dust from your car trailing behind you down our pink road and onto our doorstep, I want to look back.
Because looking back always helps remind me, especially when I am in the middle of shoveling away what the blizzard brought us, or sweating and cursing the burs of summer, or trudging through the gumbo of the buttes after a wayward cow, that I am here.
Right back where I started from.
Right where I belong.
See, I’m not sure if I made this clear in the beginning of this little project I started (which I simply refer to as “writing it all down,”) that last year at this time I was living alone. I was living alone in a big house in a town an hour and a half away from the ranch–an hour and a half away from where my husband had just moved to take a job.
And I couldn’t go with him because I too, had a job to do. And together, we had a house to finish–a house we purchased on a good five year plan to gut it all out, put it all back together nice and shiny and live there, working and saving and making our way back to the ranch in good time.
But the fast paced industry in which husband is employed sent to him an opportunity that we couldn’t pass up–an opportunity to continue work with his company and live where we wanted to live. For a good long time.
And we were looking for some permanency, because we had spent the last five New Years in different houses.
Whew, were we ready to be home.
So this couldn’t be passed up. Because ten years ago, when we graduated from high school, together, we would have never guessed that we could be out here in our mid-twenties and starting the life we always wanted.
So husband packed his bags and I kept my job and my stuff in the house that was torn apart from wall to wall. And on the weekends, along with our wonderfully helpful family members, we hammered and nailed and painted and sawed and planned and stained and varnished and cleaned and one of us may or may not have gotten her head stuck in a ladder.
I can’t remember.
And I was exhausted. And I missed my husband. And I was lonely and felt like the winter was never going to end. I cried a bit and then looked on the bright side and then cried a bit more.
Then I went to Vegas.
Me, not winning...
And I met big Elvis and saw Bette Midler and won a dollar and wore my fancy outfits.
Then it was back to the real world, more snow and more building and more missing each other and more tears until one day I finished a job that was challenging and good for me, we cleaned up the sawdust, packed up my shoe collection and the pug, shut the door and put out the for sale sign.
For Sale To the Highest Bidder-the last two years of our lives (and some of husband’s blood with my tears splashed in).
And down the road we went, all of our earthly possessions crammed in husband’s pickup, sweat trickling down our faces, paint on our clothes. Here I would like to say the sky opened up and the sun shone down on us and all was right with the world.
But I am nothing if I’m not real and so I will say instead, I was scared to death. Because I had major plans. And I told people about them. I had this vision of living and having a family and sharing this place with others since I was a little girl.
And here I was and all I could hear in my head, over the birds chirping and the cows mooing and the coyotes howling was my voice…”now what?”
But after a mental breakdown, which I’m sure I’ve told you about, that husband of mine found me out in the grass, and told me to do it already.
And I guess all I needed was permission, because in the last seven months, from day two of dropping my bags on the floor of my grandparents’ home, I picked myself a welcome home bouquet and began the journey of telling you all about it…
…and damn it if you didn’t listen and cheer me on as I kicked off my work shoes and postponed showers and my daily grooming habits to roll in the grass, to walk down the pink road, to bury my face in the neck of a good horse, to climb to the top of every hill on this place and take a good look at it all.
To really see it.
And you laughed with me as I danced in the pouring rain and then shook your heads when I came up with the brilliant idea to fling our bodies down the side of a slippery, deadly, bloody clay butte, defying death and acquiring a nasty case of butt burn.
Good Lord.
You listened as I suffered from the nostalgia a childhood home cultivates and nodded your head as I told you about a youth spent in the dirt and mud and hills of this place, hair wild and dreams big. You helped me welcome my relatives for a family reunion and remember my grandmother, make her jelly and imagine her life here.
You shared your memories as well and I thank you for that.
You came with me as I jumped in the cool North Dakota Lake Sakakawea…
Which is more than I can say for some members of my family. So thank you very much.
We rode our bikes through the summer when we weren’t on the backs of our horses.
You walked with me down autumn paths and got in close as I took my time examining the mushrooms, and stems of flowers, and acorns buried underneath the leaves.
You helped me appreciate the small things–the small things that sometimes go unnoticed. I noticed them because I wanted to show them to you.
And you wanted to see them.
So I thank you for that too.
Together we marveled at the changing of the leaves…
…and welcomed, bravely with teeth bared, the first snow…
…in September?
Wow.
So I took you along, trudging through snow banks, examining the contrast and the shapes the flakes make on their own and piled up like that.
I flung our bodies down snow covered hills and to a screaming stop in a big pile of family at the bottom.
Then you helped me say hello as we welcomed my new nephew into the world with open arms and came with me to Texas, where part of my heart lives…
…and of course suffered through my home movies and maintained your patience as we kneaded the dough in our tiny kitchen.
And, again, didn’t judge as I continued my study on his strong jaw line, masculine silhouette and dark, mysterious eyes.
Which is, again, more than I can say for some members of my family.
So, you know, thanks!
So as the new year rolls in and my plans to make you all a place to stay, a place to hike and bike and ride horses and take pictures continue I know the challenges are ahead. I know this. But it is because of you and your appreciation, your enthusiasm and support and thumbs up and kind words that I was able to see this place again–not only through my eyes, my grown up eyes, but through your eyes as well.
Because this year you know I didn’t scale mountains, or travel the seven seas, or save the world in any way.
But I saved myself.
In 2010 I saved myself by finding within me the spirit of a little girl who fell in love with this land and possessed the gumption and nerve and energy and wild-hair-up-her-ass ideas to maybe make them work someday.
And I have you to thank for that.
So I raise my cocktail glass to a Happy New Year friends.
And to more good stuff, hard stuff, muddy and snowy and annoying and furry and lovable stuff ahead.
Oh, and my New Year’s resolution? To finally get to that damned laundry already….
And now, a quick recap of a Very Veeder Christmas so you can all move on with your lives and wait, with bated breath, for the next dramatic adventure of the ranch pug in bad outfits, or weather report that involves more snow, or photos of tiny birds far away because I lack the appropriate sneaking skills.
And also because I promised you I’d let you know how the cheese ball turned out.
Ok, here we go:
This was the tree. My momma’s famous tree. A tree that only tipped over once during the season due to that one last bulb that set it over the edge. Yeah, surprisingly it wasn’t the evil cat.
Because the devil cat was too busy hanging out in this bag…
This is utter humiliation and annoyance and all of the things that are so awkward and wonderful about the holidays. Please note and oooh and aahhh over my holiday vest.
And these are the gifts, sure to provide hours of entertainment and complete happiness:
For little sister, a shiny new ukulele. To which she exclaimed with glee: “What? A ukulele? Oh my, oh my, oh my I had no idea! I will never put it down. Ever. I’ll prove it to you. All. Christmas. Day.”
“So many possibilities! We should put on a Christmas Ukulele Concert! And this will be our album cover when we take it to the streets.”
“But first I better learn a chord…oh man…I need to Google this shit…”
And a gift for Cowboy:
…now get your butt back in the kitchen.
Yes, the kitchen, where we feasted on prime rib, mashed potatoes, cranberries, smoked turkey, broccoli salad, sweet potatoes, and Cowboy’s famous cookie salad.
This is the table:
And upon this table a reindeer shaped cheese ball was born…
…and about one second after this photo was snapped, his head fell off.
But don’t worry, it was promptly reattached and relocated to the fridge…
…where it fell off again.
And so did his nose.
And for a moment I thought Christmas was ruined.
Until this came traipsing through the kitchen.
Bwahahahahhaahahaahaha! (Oh, and I’m in so much trouble)
Ok. Sorry. Moving on.
So after an uncooperative, but delicious reindeer shaped cheese ball was consumed, a beautiful feast with friends and family, a couple glasses of Santa’s Surprise (my famous cocktail…which was actually a Sex on the Beach, but that was deemed an inappropriate title for a Christmas drink) we headed outside to burn off some calories before the inevitable pie and cookie gorge.
The posse: My mother in law, father in law, pops and little sister…
Oh and don’t be alarmed, that is not Freddy Kruger on the snowmobile. That is husband.
He didn’t want to get cold.
Ok, this is the beginning of a sledding race between Freddy, I mean, husband and little sister…
…and this is how it ended…
This is pops demonstrating the depth of the snow…a severe situation…
…and this is what happens when you lose your sled at the bottom of the hill in these circumstances…
..turns out you also lose your arms and the bottom part of your legs. Poor pops, how’s he gonna eat pie now?
This is more holiday humiliation:
I think I heard him whisper “sweet mercy…” but I can’t be sure…
Oh Christmas. There is no better season…
…for love crashing down a snow covered hill…
…wearing sparkling bows as fashionable hair accessories…
…crowd pleasing performances…
…torture…
…and humiliation…
Speaking of, let’s see that ukulele performance one more time!
It’s the morning after Christmas and from the comfort of my bed where I have decided to remain watching “Julie and Julia” and drinking coffee out of my favorite snowman cup, I can see (and hear) my dearly beloved practicing the D chord on the new “used” guitar I collaborated and schemed and finagled to buy him this Christmas.
And I am gathering he liked the surprise, because the first thing he said to me this morning as I rolled over and let him know that I am not getting up any time soon is:
“Good morning. Good to see you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go learn to play guitar today.”
So he’s working on it. And the thing about husband is, he probably will learn how to play guitar today. I have been practicing and playing guitar since I was twelve years old and husband will more than likely swoop in with a mission and learn to play “Stairway to Heaven” in a couple weeks.
Better than me.
Because I can’t play “Stairway to Heaven.”
Husband is good at everything.
Which drives me crazy, but comes in handy mostly.
Anyway, here I am this Sunday morning surrounded by unwrapped gifts and ribbon and leftovers and dishes, still under the covers in my little cabin in the North Dakota hills listening to husband take his first steps on the way to rock star status and I am thinking, this movie and coffee and private concert in bed in the morning should become an after Christmas tradition.
And I think I can arrange that.
Because I have had some practice at maintaining traditions this Christmas season, and, if I do say so myself, we did it proud this year.
As you know this little house has been around. My grandpa built it and my dad and his family have celebrated many Christmases between the walls. When I was growing up, my cousins and aunts and uncles gathered around the Christmas tree in our “Beef, it’s What’s for Dinner” sweatshirts (our gramma was a member of the Cattlewomen Association and felt her grandchildren should advertise the cause) and performed carols and put on plays on Christmas Eve and then dressed in our best and headed out to the little country church down the road for the candlelight service.
Evidence, I must always provide evidence. That's me on the right being held against my will by my oldest cousin. My sister and my other cousin to the left of me, thrilled about our matching outfits.
And as we grew a little older and time took people away and changed our world like it often does, the tradition of Christmas Eve spent in this house for my family continued. After my grandmother died, my other grandparents from eastern North Dakota would move in for the season to ring in the holiday at the ranch. And they brought with them their own tradition of pancakes and gifts before church.
It was always cozy. It was always magical. It was always sweet and syrupy with the smell of cedar and cinnamon candles and hot coffee.
And there was always a trip through the starry, crisp and sparkling landscape to our little country church.
So that is how husband and I hosted Christmas Eve this year. With blueberry waffles and bacon and my homemade chokecherry jelly and gifts and laughter and photos by the Christmas tree (sans beef shirts.)
Me, cookn' the bacon. Yeah, sometimes I chip in with the parts of the meal that don't involve mixed drinks and wine.
Then we left it all to be cleaned up later as we piled in the car and let our headlights cut through the foggy, frosty night and take us the 35 miles to the little white church on the hill that was waiting for us with lights on.
Our drive to church wasn’t always this long. See, we used to attend services only five miles north of our home in a tiny little country church in the middle of a field called “Faith Lutheran.” This is where my sisters and I, along with the neighborhood farm kids within a 25-mile radius, took Sunday school lessons from my pops. And during the Christmas season, pops would put together a list of hymns that he knew and could realistically be played on the guitar and we would sing “Go tell it on the mountain,” “Away in the manger,” and “Winds through the olive trees,” loud and angelically in our red and green sweaters, hair combed and hands at our sides.
Then, in the grand finale, we would light each other’s candles and hold them steady, peacefully, prayerfully, as we sang “Silent Night,” to sweet baby Jesus on the eve of his birth.
And I like to imagine the crowd of eight families who filled that tiny church wall to wall had tears in their eyes at the beauty and innocence of it all…
But, sadly, the voices of little ones will no longer fill the Christmas Eve air out on the prairie where our little Faith Lutheran church stands. Because, without sounding too dramatic, the changing landscape of rural America has finally made its way to our little corner of the world as many young families choose to make their homes in town and family farms are left to be worked on the weekends. The population of the congregation of that tiny church has dwindled and tapered off to the point of no return and Faith Lutheran, home to my first Christmas song solo, closed its doors for good this summer.
Leaving behind only one country church in our community, about 35 miles north of our ranch. First Lutheran Church, the last of its kind, still stands proud and tall on the rolling landscape, surrounded by wheat fields and oil wells and farmyards and cattle, and continues to welcome the family members of those who founded the place of worship, those who dug its foundation and built its steeple.
And I am one of those relatives, because, as pops reminds us each time we pull onto the gravel road that leads to its door, he helped build that steeple–the one that reaches toward the heavens…you know way up there, almost to the clouds. Yup, he did that, all the while overcoming his horrifying feelings toward heights.
Yup, pops helped build that steeple. So under that steeple we walked through the doors on Christmas Eve, hand in hand, side by side with those we love.
And we hugged neighbors and classmates we haven’t seen for years. We straightened out our holiday scarves and smoothed our dresses and talked about new babies and Christmas dinners and as the pastor stood before us, our chatter silenced and Christmas Eve candlelight service began.
And it opened with gusto as a neighborhood boy played “Good King Wenceslas” on his saxophone, cheeks rosy, shirt pressed and tucked into his blue Wranglers and belt buckle. I admit I might have welled up a bit as I remembered our humble Christmas concerts with guitar accompanist and wondered where all the children have gone.
And noticed that this church with the steeple wasn’t bursting at the seams with families squished in pews, sharing hymnals.
But that didn’t stop their voices, no matter the number, from filling the air with the music I remembered singing shoulder to shoulder with the kids who shared my landscape, called the little church out on the prairie theirs and grew and learned under the same remote sky.
So I sang the melody to “Oh little town of Bethlehem,” as my pops’ voice sang the base. I listened to the greeting and looked down the pew to my little sister as she sang from memory “Go tell it on the mountain.” I smiled at the little neighbor kid, who wasn’t so little anymore and we sang together “Away in the manger,” just like we used to.
And then the sermon, the offering, the prayer and, with the lights turned low, in a chain reaction, we lit one another’s candles and sang over our flickering lights “Silent Night.”
And there was that magic again.
There it was. I have felt the same way every Christmas Eve since I could first form a memory.
My voice a little stronger, a little louder, my father’s voice a little more weathered, my little sister a bit taller, my momma a grandmother now.
But there we all stood, side by side, under that steeple, remembering our little church, thankful for this one, thankful for family, thankful for our place in this world.
Thankful for a tradition, that, no matter the time, the roof or the steeple we worship under, the family that had to leave us, or the friends and babies we welcome with open arms, we keep.
We keep and celebrate…
…and remember.
And maybe someday soon, husband will be performing his own rendition of “Joy to the World,” at church on Christmas Eve.
This skiing hippo has nothing to do with anything, but he's cute so I thought I would give him some face time...
Merry Christmas! It’s here I suppose. All signs point that way. The Christmas tree is up, the snow is on the ground, the lights are on the fence, the pug is hiding out in his Santa suit and my little sister came home yesterday.
Complete with holiday sweater and jingle bell earrings.
So we kicked off the weekend and broke in the holiday like it was meant. While husband was at work (bless is little heart) we lounged it out like only a tried and true college student knows how to do.
It didn’t take me too long to snap right back to those days. We filled our snowman mugs with coffee and shuffled around in our wool socks and sweatpants as we fried up some bacon and eggs and I told her all my troubles in like, three breaths (I don’t have too many these days) and then we moved on to her life plans really quick, and her latest boyfriend, and then some embarrassing little tidbits–like how I fell on my face in a restaurant and unintentionally bared my floral underwears to the entire occupancy and how she dropped a bottle of bread oil while out with her friends trying to be fancy, shattering the entire thing all over the floor and splashing oil on her fellow diners, sending them packing and saying things like “someone doesn’t get out much.”
And then we plopped down on the couch and watched a movie that involved a love story and inner conflict and cute boys while the pug made his way to a new lap….and so did the lab…and the cats…little sister was in heaven.
So were the pets.
When the movie concluded, we stretched and contemplated doing something constructive, so we took two steps to the kitchen and whipped up a batch or two of hard candy…because I found a candy thermometer somewhere and I was going to learn how to use it….
…then I painted white snowflakes on her tiny, nubby fingernails….
…and then we melted some cheese and salsa and dipped half a bag or tortilla chips in it and got back on the couch to refresh our memory of how the Grizwalds spent their holiday.
Then Momma called.
She wanted to make Christmas cookies.
So we peeled ourselves out from under the blankets and obliged.
See, the women in my family have little traditions like these. We are not bakers. We do not attempt bread dough or pie crust or elaborate gingerbread houses with gingerbread men and women standing outside hand in hand in little dresses and overalls.
We do not make beautifully decorated and personalized delicate treats in tins with fancy wrapping and beautifully piped frosting.
No. We do not do these things.
But we do raid momma’s liquor cabinet and find what we need to mix our selves a fancy cocktail…
…and dip things in chocolate…
…and pops sometimes helps and makes things like this…
"My chocolate covered pretzel glasses, my chocolate covered pretzel glasses, without them, I am powerless."
..and then we dig out the cookie mix that comes out of a bag or box and proceed to exercise our creativity by cutting out holiday shapes and decorating the cookies into tie died peace signs, Santas in green and blue suits, multi-colored churches and green stars, all the while wondering why there is a sailboat mixed in with our Christmas cookie cutter collection.
Why the sailboat every year? I don't get it. I just don't get it.
There have been multiple explanations. None of which I accept.
By the time it’s all over momma’s kitchen looks like this:
A Christmas war zone complete with frosted walls, sprinkle coated floors, cranberry vodka puddles and half eaten Santa cookies. We might be in the middle of an argument about who has the most beautifully creative cookie and then we might make pops make the final decision. He usually picks the top five, in no particular order, so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings. And I might stomp my foot and say something like “No, that is not acceptable. Pick one. You must pick one and only one!” while presenting to him, in the least obvious way, my best effort.
And then, when he doesn’t chose mine, I might accidentally throw flour in someone’s hair, or wipe green frosting on someone’s ear or chase someone down the hall with both ingredients, threatening a full on food fight….while screaming “I am not a sore loser…I. Am. Not!”
No, this is not a Martha Stewart Christmas cooking experience.
Cocktails anyone?
But it’s ours.
And the cookies are delicious, out of the box or not.
But they are always out of the box.
And there is always laughter.
And lounging.
And that’s how we get ready for Christmas around here.
It’s my favorite part of the whole ordeal.
So Happy Christmas Eve everyone.
I hope your little sister comes home in her sweatpants with a matching pair of jingle bell earrings for you…
…and if you have another sister, with a new baby and a nice husband, I hope she comes home too.
Cause this Christmas I miss my big sister that has a new baby a nice husband…
But, you know, she usually wins the cookie decorating contest….
…hmmmm….so I should have actually had a chance this year…
In honor of the first day of winter yesterday, nature did what was expected of her around here.
She opened up the sky and let loose a bazillion-trillion tiny little snowflakes, each unique and sparkly and white and cold, to make their way down to the frozen, tired, cold, white earth–an earth that seems to me to have had enough already.
But Mother Nature knows best and she just looked at us and said: “Oh, the party has just begun folks. It has just begun.”
And then she proceeded to sprinkle in some of those giant flakes for good measure.
The result?
Cars stuck, shovels out, snow blowers tuned up and turned on, roads blocked, offices closed…
…school cancelled.
SNOW DAY!
Oh, I love a good snow day. I love everything about it. I love waking up the morning after the warnings on the TV and radio and running to the window to see if the weatherman’s a liar. I love pouring my coffee in a big mug and staying in my slippers, knowing nobody expects me anywhere. I love gauging the height of the drifts and waiting until the last flake falls before I bundle up and get out my shovel. I love my wool socks. I love the card games we play and the movies we watch because there is nothing else to do. But most of all I love that snow days remind us (because we all need reminding) that sometimes we just need to pack it up and call it a day.
Some things are out of our control.
When we were kids there was nothing better than a snow day. Snow days meant imagination stretched to the furthest extent, pent up energy from hours behind desks and indoors released onto the cold, white world in screams of glee and snowball fights. Snow days meant no school and no school meant the entire day to spend in our snowsuits, searching for the best and biggest hill to fly down, building and destroying snow forts, collecting a stash of snowballs to prepare for the inevitable invasion of the neighbor kids, digging tunnels in the banks the plow or your dad’s tractor made along the roads. A day like this meant scarves and makeshift sleds and hot cocoa and the reason God invented little brothers and sisters.
Snow days meant that, when we had exhausted all of our snow-game resources, when our cheeks were rosy and frozen against the cold, our mittens crusted with ice and the sun began sinking over the horizon, turning the landscape a little more blue than white, we would walk off into a spot in the yard or on the playground where we had yet to make tracks and plop down on our backs.
And we were quiet for a moment as we stared up at the evening sky and watched our breath make smoke-like puffs into the crisp air.
We were quiet as we lived within this childhood right, basked in the simplicity we were not yet old enough to appreciate, and then, before the cold soaked through our fluffy coats, we moved our arms back and forth, our legs followed and we sunk our heads into the fluff just to make sure we made our mark on a world that was too big for us to conquer any way else.
With that we popped up off of the ground and stood, with hands on our hips taking a brief moment to see what our little bodies looked like with wings.
And then we flew away to the next daring adventure and soon the snow of the season turned to water and the water filled the creeks and we turned another year older. Another winter passed and another and before we knew it the snow days that once filled us with anticipation for hours of freedom and play turned to cussing at the weather report for halting deadlines and creating obstacles that stood in the way of progress and timing.
And so we sigh in the face of a day wasted, reminded that, like time passing and the changes of weather, there are some things we cannot control.
But there are things we can.
Like how we spend a day given to us free and clear by nature herself.
So, inspired by all of the kids who I am sure were jumping in snow banks and catching flakes on the tips of their tongues, I decided to push my adult attitude aside and find myself a nice, clear patch of snow too.…
…because it has been a long time since I’ve seen what I look like with wings…
