Thanksgiving: A recap.
Yup, that about sums it up.
Another successful holiday at the ranch…
…here’s to a speedy recovery…
This is what comes out of my kitchen during the holidays.
Yup, when the kitchen is mine I create character shaped cheese…
I do something similar for Christmas.
Oh don’t worry, Cowboy’s cooking up a storm and has created a great little post-holiday meal for you all. I’ll be sure to post it as soon as I recover from the production. It’s a goodie.
But on this special day I felt compelled to share with you my sophisticated and famous (in at least two counties) holiday dish.
Because I don’t want you and your relatives to miss out on the best way to kick off the binge eating that is sure to ensue right after you all consume about thirty crackers dipped in this…
A delightfully festive and perfectly adorable turkey shaped cheese ball
And to give the bird clothes for warmth and eyes to see the light:
1. Mix cream cheese, dried beef, green onions, Worcestershire, ranch dressing mix and cheddar cheese in a bowl. Form into two balls–a large ball for the turkey body and a smaller ball for the head…how much smaller depends on how big you think his brain is.
2. Roll both balls in the slivered almonds to coat.
3. Now place the turkey’s head on the body before you scare the kids.
Ok, let’s breathe some life into this hunk of cheese. We have the power:
4. Give the bird eyes with two chocolate chips.
5. Make him a nice shirt with two or three chocolate chip buttons.
6. The candy corns make two feet for dancing and one beak for singing a song of thanks.
7. Use the pretzels to make the tail feathers (and then shake yours if you wanna).
8. And top it off with a top hat, Pilgrim style! Place the Reese’s cup on the turkey head and then cut the mini Butterfinger in half. Stick the pieces of the Butterfinger back to back with a bit of the cheese mixture left in the bowl. And then do the same thing to make the Butterfinger sandwich stay on the peanut butter cup….
…and then…
“Ta Da” another Turkey is brought into this world…

This year's model. I used carrots for the feet and beak, cause momma ate all the candy corns. Oh, and I couldn't find my almonds, but hey, in my kitchen we are nothing if we aren't flexible.
…and your guests are mystified. Jaws drop. Grandmothers faint. Applause.
Take a bow, you’ve just become the favorite relative.
Happy Turkey day from our kitchen to yours.
I hope you remember to wear your stretchy pants.
Thank you.
I raise my head and say these words to the sky, to the stars above hidden by the clouds and the snow falling down.
To the man beside me, deep in a dream, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of this night.
To the wild earth beneath my feet, frozen and hard and strong and sleeping too.

To the music that brings a song to my voice and the passion to sing it out loud.
To the coyotes that howl and take in the air and remind me what lonesome really is…
…to a family who shows me, every day, what lonesome is not.
To a world that holds darkness to help us know the beauty of the light…
…and the fragile purpose of a life well lived…
Thankful—I’m alive.
Thank you—you’re alive.
Give thanks—we’re alive…
…and together in another day.
Ok people. That up there? That was real life here this weekend. Like real, zero degree, blustery, white, snowy, wintery life here in our little piece of Western North Dakota paradise.
That’s a real life rosy nose. And that’s a traditional camouflage neck warmer and real snow carried on their shoulders into the house directly from under the unpredictable November sky.
And those men have just come in from working under it, trudging through the deep white blanket like two abominable snow men roaring through the trees and valleys on a quest to find the cattle in a near white out.
Because the show must go on. Even when you feel like you’re trapped in some sort of glitchy snow globe that was put together without the pretty, sparkly Christmas decorations.

Anyway, it’s times like these I am glad I can feign being busy with housework and avoid the outdoor chores. And it’s times like these, when the ice melts off the men’s muddy boots and onto my “freshly mopped” floor, that I look for a reason not to find the nearest bear den and join in the celebration of hibernation, chances of being mauled and eaten be damned.
So for my sanity and for the sanity of the puffy coated beings around me, I came up with the following. Hopefully it will help convince you this season can be loved and trusted to happily deliver some wonderful things.
I present to you:
The Top Ten Reasons You Can Like Winter And Move on With Your Life:
1. Pockets. Now that you are wearing an excessive amount of clothing, you are bound to have a pocket or two.
And if you’re really lucky, you left a dollar or ten in there last spring when you put it away and are now smiling cause you found it… and promptly purchased 1-10 Snickers bars.
Because money found in that manner should be used to buy candy.
It’s a rule I just made up.
Also, pockets make it so you can carry an unreasonable amount of things you might need…like gum and matches and pictures of your pug…er, I mean kids…and candy bars.
2. Mittens. They allow your fingers to get reacquainted after that long, hot summer. Your fingers appreciate this. And I appreciate mittens.
You should too.
3. From November to April you have a fine excuse for your bad hair days. It’s called a beanie people (or a toque if you’re my neighbor to the north). Deal with it.
And they will, cause their hair looks exactly the same when they come in from the cold.

4. It is not swimsuit season.
And won’t be again for a good seven months. So have a cookie why don’t ya.
5. Snuggling with the cat.
Snuggling with the pug.
Snuggling with the lab.
Snuggling with the other cat.
Snuggling with the husband.
Snuggling with a blanket and a cup of coffee.
Snuggling with all of the above.
Oh, and snuggling with a Snuggie–God’s apology to man kind for inventing this weather in the first place.
6. This time of year nobody will give you a hard time if you watch “A Christmas Story” repeatedly until Valentine’s Day. Because nothing warms a chilly soul like a pair of bunny pajamas, a Red Rider BB Gun and a lamp that looks like a leg.
Nothing.
7. Can’t decide on what to wear? No problem, you can wear it all (and probably should if you’re fond of your toes).
8. Sledding, skiing, skating, snowboarding and all of the other dangerous winter sports I stink at but you’re probably good at.
Just do me a favor and skip the triple axels and back flips and ollies when I’m around and we can remain friends. I’m sensitive about my lack of skills.
And the constant stream of snot running down my nose when I partake in these activities.
9. The landscape looks good in white and you look good in wool and fleece– which makes you two a match made in heaven.
10. This season–this blustery, sparkly, fluffy, temperamental season–makes spring all the sweeter and summer all the greener. 150 degree temperature fluctuations? No problem.
Where would we be if we weren’t adaptable?
Well, we would all be in San Diego…
And it’d probably get kinda crowded there and they’d more than likely run out of tequila…
So I’ll take my hot chocolate with a splash of peppermint schnapps and wait this out in my long underwear and a wool cap, thanks.
Because bikinis are overrated and don’t go well with my favorite neckerchief.

Cheers to the new season. How nice of it to show up early.
Because really, doesn’t it make for a stunning, fresh scene?

There, don’t we feel better now?
P.S. Email me and I’ll gladly give you the name of my stylist.
My momma came home from her trip to the big city of Fargo last night…
…and this is what she brought back with her:
A dog trapper hat.
For which I deduced was made for a dog to wear while trapping, not for something else to wear while trapping dogs.
Because, yup, you read that right. They have made it explicitly clear: “For Dogs Only.”
The dog trapper hat is not for a cat.
Or a baby.
And, unfortunately it is not for me, even though I’ve been looking for a winter hat that has cutouts for my ears.
Anyway, I’ll tell you something about my momma–buying outfits for dogs is not her typical behavior.
Buying turtlenecks, knit scarves and Christmas sweaters for my husband is more her thing.
But, perhaps she was feeling a bit defeated in her attempts to convert the man I married into the beatnik she always knew would be right for me, so she thought she could work her styling magic on her new BFF–the pug.
Ok momma, let’s see how this works out.
So, without further adieu, I present to you the makeover:

Chug the pug before. A small but feisty pup who just came in from a breakfast of, no doubt, squirrel guts and poop, the evidence of his meal remaining on his face. Clearly a pathetic creature in need of a new wardrobe and bit of sprucing up.
And…
…drumroll please….
Chug the pug after:

Poof! Transformation a success. What a dashing, nobel and adequately dressed trapping hound. Now this looks more like a dignified pup who eats squirrels and poop the proper way...with a knife and fork.
Now let’s go outside and test his new accessory against the elements. Is it fashionable as well as functional?
Let’s find out…
“I. Hate. You.”
What was that?
Are you warm?
I can’t hear you…
…someone is laughing hysterically at the top of her lungs.
How rude.
It’s times like these I wonder what my life has become.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go get to work on my social life. I think it may need more help than the pug.
Ok, we are deep into deer hunting season around here.
And just in case I didn’t notice that the men in this area have all suddenly grown full on beards and taken to driving ten miles an hour down the roads dressed in camo head to toe with their orange hats on their dashboards and their faces smashed against the windows of their pickups, I would like to present to you how I have been made well aware of the season in my quiet little corner of the world…you know, in case I had no idea:
First things first, I am reminded in my bathroom when I reach for my wedding rings in my pretty little soap dish.
Good morning sunshine.
I am reminded when I go to get dressed and am shocked that husband has indeed hung up his hunting pants. Nice and neatly might I add.
I guess he respects the camo.
I am reminded in the entrance to our house when I go to greet a knocking UPS man.
Cause nothing says “Welcome to our home!” like a gun and a case of camouflaged beer.
And no you’re eyes are not fooling you, that is camouflaged beer. And I am reminded once again of my place in this world when I find it in my fridge:
“Cold as a mountain stream and as refreshing as its name….”
Or don’t find it in my fridge… I know I put it in here somewhere…maybe near the not-so-fresh-anymore half and half and coffee creamer. If only it weren’t so cleverly disguised…
Oh there it is! Phew, I was getting thirsty for that cold mountain stream.
Good thing Busch added a little blaze orange or I would have died of thirst…or shot it! Oh, I could have accidentally shot it.
Good Lord.
And I am reminded on my evening commute as the radio plays the following ballad…
…and when I slam on my brakes while this creature looks for an quick escape from the sausage factory:
And I yell: “RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!”
And he screams: “I AM RUNNING LADY! I AM RUNNING! I CAN’T RUN ANY FASTER! SSSHHHHIIIIITTTTT!”
Then, taking lessons from the Busch can, promptly puts on his camo vest and disappears into the brush.
Now, let’s test out your sportsman skills and see if you can spot him in the photo above.
Winner gets a case of camouflage beer….
….that is if I can find it….
Good luck hunters. There’s only a few days left of this blessed season!
In case you needed a reminder.
Oh man, I just looked at the weather report and it doesn’t look like we are going to get a wave of tropical weather anytime soon. I was out there this weekend and if I was in denial in any way before our ride to break ice on the stock dam, I was soon frozen into reality.
And so were my toes, no matter how thick the wool socks.
So we came in, thawed our feet on the heater and Cowboy said “Let’s make strudel!”
And I said a quiet prayer of thanks to sweet Jesus for sending down a man who would utter those lovely words.
Because by “Let’s make strudel!” he really meant “I’ll make strudel.”
It’s one of those charming understandings that this married couple shares: He makes strudel. I stand back and hand him things.
Ahhh, “Let’s make strudel:” some of the best three words that have come out of Cowboy’s mouth. They are right up there with “Found your _________ (insert various expensive things I lost that he told me never to lose) and, you know, “Marry me.” Which is really only two words. Two words that I didn’t fully appreciate until dear husband first came to me with the idea:
Strudel. Apple Strudel. Apple Strudel for Supper.
You heard me.
Apparently Cowboy’s momma has been making this traditional German “dessert for supper” dish for years, putting her right up there with some of the best mommas in the world. And you might be surprised that this would work as a late evening dish, but, well, Cowboy says to trust.
And I trust.
So Cowboy called his momma to get the finishing touches on the recipe and we packed up our supplies and made the trek over to my momma’s house. We had some very important company coming in from Texas to deer hunt and Cowboy apparently thought said company was getting too skinny.
Also, Cowboy needed more space for our journey to food heaven.
And momma has more space.
But momma doesn’t have sharp knives.
Here we go again.
First things first:
Dress the part: Cowboy wanted to welcome our guest in style, so he wore his polyester shirt and his vest….and his mustache…
Ta da!
Ahh, the vest. So practical. Warm AND classy.
Hydrate: Drink of choice: Jeremiah Weed. All the cool kids are drinking it. And. We. Are. Cool. Kids.
Cool.
Now select the proper tunes: Drive By Truckers
Let’s do this:
Cowboy Cooks Momma’s Homemade Apple Strudel (For Supper? Gasp!)
Ingredients:
And the meat. Yes, you were wondering about this weren’t ya? The meat you serve with the dish is actually an important component. Cowboy usually chooses venison sausage, but any type of ham or breakfast sausage will work as well to transform this dish into a flavorful combination of sweet and tart and salty and, of course, carb loaded goodness to warm up those toes and send you straight into hibernation.
Step One: Prep your skillet
Cowboy says: “That’s what I like about my kitchen, we measure butter in sticks not tablespoons.”
(Oh my Gawd)
To this I said to Cowboy “You mean a tablespoon?”
And cowboy replied “No. Not a tablespoon. This much. This is how much I’m putting in there.”
(Yes, this is happening…)
Step Two: The dough
You may sense a theme happening here based on the last two entries of “Cowboy’s Kitchen.” Much of Cowboy’s favorite dishes happen to be heritage food. And his heritage happens to be German. And, apparently the Germans from which he sprung made meals that were based from the following simple ingredients: Flour, egg, milk, salt.
The good ‘ol white stuff.
I have advised we go in a different, lighter direction next time. But it’s Cowboy’s Kitchen, so really, I can’t promise anything.
Ok.
Now get my momma another beer…cause she’s thirsty and, as she said “they’re going down smooth tonight”

You might notice that this is not the hand of a cowboy. That's my momma's hand. Cowboy made her help.

And then this is what happened. Needless to say, I have never had to wonder where I inherited my deficiencies in the kitchen.
Hmmm, there’s something sexy about a man and his rolling pin….
Anyway, be careful not to tear holes in the dough, but if you do, it will all turn out in the end, so don’t worry, just take another drink.
Step 3: The apples
And if you want to, conduct a contest with your kitchen assistants to see who can get the longest peel. We did.
My momma’s attempt:
Oh momma.
Cowboy’s skills:
Pretty good, pretty good…
And, drum roll please….
Clearly not dressed for such success and for the other side of the camera, I won! I won!
And was accused of cheating because I used a peeler. But to that I say: That’s why God invented them.

Ok, moving right along.
*Note: Cowboy didn’t cut the apples into small enough pieces here and this made it harder to roll up the strudel. So slice your apples smaller than you see here will ya? And then forgive Cowboy cause he ain’t perfect…
…yes, this is also happening…
Cinnamon, butter, sugar?
Supper.
This is where Cowboy says you should start getting excited.
Are you excited?
I am.
And hungry.
And doing some sit-ups to prepare.
Good thing I wore my stretchy pants.
Cowboy used a spatula to help in the process of the roll up. Take a look here to see how it’s done.

And don’t worry if it doesn’t look perfect and if there are holes and you need to patch things up. I promise you your taste buds won’t care.
And neither will your guests.
Step 4: The finale
Step 5: Meat and eat
Now I’m sure you’re not quiet convinced that this can indeed satisfy as a supper dish, but serve your guests a slice of apple strudel heaven with a side of your favorite sausage and the flavor combination is sure to delight.
Some people like to add to the chaos by garnishing with syrup. Hey, you might as well go all out.
I say, add a glass of wine like my momma and I and you’re sure to sleep until spring.
Just like the bears and the squirrels.
Ahhh, I just don’t think they make meals like this down south…but then, they don’t need the extra padding for winter.
You can thank me when you wake up.
*Note: Here I feel the need to explain what I was dealing with during my quest to bring you this recipe in all of its glory. Because three things occurred that challenged me during this kitchen experience (and I don’t need any help being challenged).
1. The sun went down, like really fast as it typically does this time of year…
and…
2. My momma doesn’t believe in overhead lighting, even in times like these. “It’s just not flattering,” she says…
…which didn’t help with the fact that…
3. Cowboy’s cooking is a slow, thought out process, as I have explained before and I have been known to be less than prepared and…well my camera battery died.
So I borrowed a camera from my pops to finish the job.
I hope you got the idea, but the strudel looks better in person, I promise.
Next time I’ll bring a battery pack and a spotlight.
And more wine.
Another lesson learned in Cowboy’s Kitchen.
I would like to take a trip down memory lane this morning because I feel I have some explaining to do. I find I have to explain myself quite regularly given my emotional outbursts, unruly hair, borderline crazy relationships with animals, worst case scenario obsession and addiction to cheese, so don’t feel bad about it. I sure don’t.
But I feel it’s necessary given all of the drama, all of the animal created chaos, all of the love for place I have spilled all over the sweet world wide web.
Because I want you to know that this behavior, this passion, this melodramatic, arms wide open to the world life I lead and the fact that I write about it in all its glory and dirt and bruises and wind and sunshine is nothing new. Nothing new at all.
Yes, at young age I was told to write it all down, little girl. Write all those feelings down so you can capture them and understand them and maybe not worry so much.
So I did it and have been doing so ever since. And most of those thoughts were held safe in books never to see the light of day.
But sometimes we were given writing assignments in school…and, well…I guess I just couldn’t hold back the emotion and the theatrics and philosophy that emoted from my innocent mind, seeing it was my time to expose my soul to the world.
In 3rd grade.
And it just happened to be that one of my most prized obsessions at the time, and actually during my entire elementary school career, was my old horse and partner in crime and confidant and best friend Rindy. Rindy the old, sorrel mare.

Me with the mare at a 4-H show. I told you I was serious about 4-H and now I present the evidence-- all over that sweet, intense face.
Rindy was often the subject of my early literature.
So my gift to you, straight out of the archives, are a couple of my early pieces on the subject of friendship and love and animal whispering–all lessons learned from this beautiful, overweight and elderly creature.
Get your tissues and be prepared to be moved beyond words.
Exhibit A:
Yes, I think Exhibit A demonstrates my flair for adventure and the competitive spirit you all know me to posses as an adult. Oh, and also pure honesty at my father’s convenient forgetfulness which provided me a valid excuse for my accident. And my love of a good story.
And my feelings. Oh my feelings…
…which seemed to be placed directly on my sleeve at birth and continued to develop and grow and overwhelm my being as time marched on and my relationship with, ahem, my horse, blossomed and grew…
I give you Exhibit B:
First, I would like to point out that it was I who coined the phrase “you complete me.”
Take that Jerry Maguire.
Second, I think it is quite evident here that I needed some real friends…you know…the kind with opposable thumbs. I guess that’s what happens when you give a girl 3,000 acres years before she is legally allowed to take her drivers test (and fail).
Point three, it appears that third grade is where I developed the art of preparing for the worst case scenario as it looks like I was arranging for the eminent death of my four legged companion, or worse, her trip to the sale barn.
As if my pops would take away my only friend.
And while I have the podium, let us marvel at my remarkable use of simile, i.e: “cling to her like a bur,” which I am certain I took from one of those children’s horse novels I was reading at the time.
In addition, it appears I was also the first horse whisperer to write about my successful experiences training the four legged beast to perform on command at such great speeds by, you know, talking it over with her.

We are a blur (or was that bur?) of athleticism and speed and pure endurance, thanks to my training skills and Rindy's agility and physique.
Also, please note the little whip I had ready in case Rindy fell out of line. A whip that was, if I’m being honest here, all show. A whip that never even grazed that horse’s butt. Not a once.
Now wasn’t that fun?
So here’s the thing about this flashback– there is more to our photos and our memories than bad red pants and other questionable fashion choices.
See, living out here for the past six months as an adult woman who is looking for her place in the world I am reminded every day of where I began: in the hills behind this very house where I fell off multiple horses, walked the coulees, wrote my first songs and sang them at the top of my lungs to the trees, where I learned to dress warm, do what I’m told, identify the wildflowers, teach a young horse to trust me and plant and tend to a garden that would reap what I sowed.
And I know that’s a gift given to me from someone, somewhere.
Because oh, how I have searched for myself, just like we all have at different times in our lives, at different transitions: from student to employee. From woman to wife. From wife to mother. From young to-“gasp”- old. Yes, I have searched before and learned lessons from failing at goals, crying about work, messing up friendships and driving away from it all.
And in the times I have lost myself I have often closed my eyes and asked the ten year old version of myself, you know, the one you see up there, what to do. I have asked her for her spirit, for her courage, for her confidence and dreams.
I have asked her where she has gone? How could she leave me like this alone and so unprepared to take on all of our plans?
Because ten year old version of me really had it all figured out. I really liked her. And there were times I needed her and her purple pants to come and be by my side, to come and save me from myself.
So I came home. I traipsed around her old stomping grounds. I clung, like she so eloquently described, to the back of horses she never had the chance to meet. I named the wildflowers and searched for stray kittens and flung my body down the clay buttes during a rain storm and did all of the things that she would tell me to do if she could have seen me wallowing like this.
And it’s been six months, a half a year since I moved back here, back home where my roots are planted. So here’s my explanation, the one I promised you at the beginning of my journey down memory lane: This world in which I’ve surrounded myself remains a wonder to me.
Because this weekend as I was looking through old photographs and laughing and teasing and covering my eyes at the choice of words and the choice of outfits, tears streamed down my face at the thought of the innocence and spirit I possessed and how my life captivated me so.
During the last six months, as I saddled up horse after horse and took off over the hills smiling, flying through pastures, talking to those creatures like I did when I was young, sometime, somewhere when I let it all go and threw myself to the wind again, someone nudged me in the ribs, her face wide in a smile, curls springing out from underneath her cap, eyes big and brown looking at me with anticipation, with excitement, with creativity and energy.
She opened her smile to say, “Hi there.”
And I saw my reflection: my hair a wreck, my jeans worn at the knees, my sorrel horse beneath me, my skin kissed by the weather and I was not afraid of myself. I was not worried. I was not unsure or fragile or grasping at the right things.
I was doing it.
The right thing.
My favorite thing.
Just like her…
Just like me.
It’s Friday and I have a cat on my shoulder.
And now she’s on my lap.
And now she’s eating my computer keys.
Delicious.
It’s Friday and there is so much to get done, so much to do before a great weekend. See my little sister is coming to see our nephew (and me. I’d like to think she is coming to see me too). And so are my grams and gramps on their way to Arizona (didn’t think North Dakota was on the way to Arizona did ya?).
On the agenda is some baby snuggling, a massive consumption of cheese and wine and dips and tortilla chips and dessert and everything my little sister demands for her visits and my momma is sure to deliver. Also on the agenda is a break for me to torture little sister by asking questions about her boyfriends and parties and grades and what’s up with all of the flannel? (she is 21, but she is still my little sister you know).
Then I will ask to borrow her clothes and she will insist I don’t get them dirty and that I promptly return them for inspection. And then I will kiss her face with the dimply cheeks just like when she was a baby and promptly pick a playful punching fight where we fly around the kitchen knocking over chairs until I am laying flat on my back on the living room floor while she annoyingly performs some sadistic torture move that she learned in prison or something while I scream “Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!” and whine cause she gave me a bruise.
Cause little sister is way stronger than me.
Anyway it should be good.
But I’ve got work to do, people to get back to, music to practice, surfaces and socks to clean. A basement to organize. You know, grown up things to accomplish before I can relax this weekend.
And as I sit here hunched over my computer and look down to find a kitten purring and dozing on my lap who then promptly pops up, as if electrocuted, only to jump into my briefcase and check on the files to make sure they’re organized I am suddenly jolted, like the kitten, by my life right now.
Because last night I ventured out into civilization to go to a restaurant, drink some wine and catch up with an old friend. And we got to talking about growing up and work and where we used to be and where we are right now.
As we were talking I recalled how I used to be in a classroom, then on the road two weeks a month, then on a stage somewhere, then in an office in the mountains, then in an office on the plains. I used to be on my hands and knees helping to tile a bathroom shower and scrubbing saw dust off of the floor. I used to be overwhelmed at the thought of it all…all the responsibilities, all of the push and go and competitions and deadlines and waiting for the next step, waiting for my life to start.
And sometimes I feel like that still.
Sometimes.
But right now it is Friday and the pug has his head on my knee and the kitten has found a nice sunny spot to lay and the lab is out digging in the yard and the horses are grazing on a hill top way above the house and I can think of nowhere I would rather be.
And the jolt I was talking about…the jolt came when I realized I don’t give a damn about all of the above tasks mentioned.
Who am I?
Because at this moment there nothing else I would rather do than sit here with my coffee cup and rub a few bellies and bury my head in their fur and to hike to the hill and scratch a nose and thank these crazy pets for knowing always what life is really about.
And dirty socks be damned, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Oh, and while I am at it, I will give them all an extra treat to thank them, the animals, for understanding, somehow, that when husband is gone for the week it is perfectly acceptable to sleep in bed with me…and for never attempting this when husband is indeed here. I will always be perplexed and grateful for your intuition.
And thanks for helping me get all this work done.
Really. Thanks.
Happy weekend everyone.
Do something you love.
Kiss someone you love.
And lay in a sunny spot.
Oh, and by the way, little sister has never been to prison…
…I don’t think….

I have been home alone all week, out here, thirty miles from the nearest gas station, the nearest place to purchase a diet coke or a donut or a new pair of mittens. Oh, I could jump in my car and drive that thirty miles and visit my friends, sit down and work in town, but the new winter wind has been pushing its way through the cracks in my old house and I want to be here to greet it.
See, it has been threatening snow, threatening winter for a few days and the North Dakota weatherman loves this. He loves the drama of it all. He loves to tell us to stay indoors, to hunker down. He laughs. He banters through the green and yellow storm system on his map.
He tells us what it is going to be like.

Gusting wind. Three to four inches of white stuff. Chilly. 20-30 degrees. Cold.
And of course, when the sun will set. Approximately 6:15 pm and then you’re on your own in this little house, girl.
Just you and the cats and dogs.
And I should be afraid, after a summer filled with warm sunshine, plans for the future, long hot days with work to be done.
I should be nervous about the next four to five months where I might be forced to be cooped up, thinking, writing, planning, worrying about the future. Hunkering down.
This is what winter tends to do to people around here. Make them worry.

And those things, the solitary, the chill that sets in about now used to scare me. I used to panic and wish for the sun to return while I wrote melancholy music all winter and cursed the sky.
But this week a sort of satisfied, full, accepting calm has drifted over me and when I woke up yesterday morning to a dusting of fresh snow I fully expected the panic. I fully expected the dread to set in.

But with coffee cup in hand, I surprised myself as I sat all day by my drafty window fixated by the patterns the snow made in the lawn, by the way the wind whistled, by how, just like that, the morning, the landscape, the world was cleaned up and put to sleep under this sparkling, cold blanket.
So I stepped out in it, bundled from head to toe in layers of wool and cotton and down and knit and was struck again for the first time since my childhood at the absolute peace and tranquility winter brings.

The wind changes tune, the grass makes muffled noises as you walk through, as if to say “shhh, shhh, everything’s sleeping.” The leaves no longer crunch, the trees are bare and each species seems to blend into the next, holding on to one another, coming together for the greater good of the chilly season.

I found myself holding my breath as I crept up toward the horses who were cutting trails through the pasture, pushing aside the white with their noses and looking for the next, silent bite. They snorted and nuzzled and their hot breath warmed my chilled face, their fur now ragged and thick catching snowflakes and protecting their backs from the climate.

They are always prepared.




Nature is always prepared.
And the geese above my head yelled down, making their brief presence known on their fast flight south. A bittersweet sound. A sound that cut the crisp air.

Oh weatherman. You don’t know where I am, what this season really feels like. You would not be smirking if you did. You would not be so full of pride at your declaration, so full of hate for the wind.

Because you have never been here. You have never been so far away, so cold and so full of peace out here in this white, mysterious horizon.


But I have. I’m here. I have found a season you never will.
