Author Archives: Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

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About Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Working, writing, raising kids and playing music from our ranch on the edge of the badlands in Western North Dakota

Uncontrollable urges.

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I had two Thanksgivings.

Which means I had approximately seven helpings of turkey, five helpings of mashed potatoes, ten spoonfuls of broccoli salad, three turkey shaped sugar cookies, a half of a turkey shaped cheese ball, a slice of pumpkin pie, another slice of pumpkin pie, a pint of cookie salad, four days of leftovers and no hope of fitting into my skinny jeans for the rest of my life.

But this story isn’t about me and my uncontrollable urges.

It’s about the pug and his.

Because besides making a few dozen ridiculous and unnecessary choices involving doughnut cake and thirds of everything, I also made the ridiculous and unnecessary choice to bring Chug the damn pug to Thanksgiving at my in-laws’.

I had good intentions. I mean, my nieces like him. And so does my Mother-in-Law. She thinks he’s hilarious.

Also, I knew if I left the little shit at the ranch for the weekend the dog would hitchhike his ass up to the nearest oil site on the hunt for a lonely oil field worker who would let him in his camper, feed him the other half of his steak before inviting the little weasel to snuggle down on the couch with him for the night.

So I loaded him up in the backseat of the pickup between the wine bottles and my bag full of stretchy pants and off we went to hug and visit and play ping pong and Barbies and board games and drink wine and wait patiently for the meal I could smell wafting from the house before we even pulled into the drive.

And all was going well. It was. The pug was behaving himself, sniffing the butts of the other family dogs, making friends, cleaning up crumbs from the kitchen floor, sneaking up on laps, licking faces…

and winking on command.

And then, four minutes before the meal was set to be served, that lovable, crowd-working dog lifted his leg and pissed on the floor smack dab in the middle of the living room and right before my eyes, sending me screaming and chasing the one-eyed monster out of the room and barreling through the kitchen before sliding to a stop in the dining room where I scooped him up and snapped out of my blind rage only to find we had landed ourselves in the midst of a crowd of relatives who had just received news of my cousin’s engagement.

I’m pretty sure my swearing, screaming and all the fur flying was just the atmosphere they were looking for in that moment.

And now the pug’s for giveaway.

Again.

The heart of America

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When I was touring, some of my favorite spots weren’t necessarily my destination, but the Main Streets I passed through on my way to the next stop.

And much of the time I made the small towns my next stop. Because I liked the way the store fronts lined up. I liked the old diners. I liked the flower shops and drive-throughs that have been painted and repainted and still have the best burgers. I liked the quiet little rivers that ran through them or the surprise fishing pond I might find. I liked the playground equipment and the walking paths and the old men who met for coffee at the Cenex Station.

I passed through many small towns on my way to Minneapolis or Chicago or to other small towns in Nebraska or Kansas or down in Oklahoma and they all had their own flavor–old houses repainted standing behind tall and neatly placed trees, fresh pavement outside the old soda fountain, kids riding their bikes to the new Dairy Queen, a swimming pool or a beautiful school.

If I had time to kill between stops I would slow down and turn off of the Main Street to find a restaurant or a park where I could walk around. Or maybe I would just drive through the residential streets, admiring the freshly cut lawns, watching the kids ride their bikes and throw footballs in the front yards, imagining what my life would be like if I lived in this town by a small lake in Minnesota, or the one in the middle of a field in Nebraska or in the heat at the edge of Texas.

I loved to see America by car. It was a slow-paced adventure filled with time to contemplate things like how one might wind up in Ada, Oklahoma while picking up a sandwich at the local grocery store before heading out to search for a movie theater.

I have traveled through some major cities, but none have made such impressions as those with two gas stations, five churches and six bars.

Show me New York and then take me to gossip on your front porch along a quiet street on the edge of Small Town USA, population 800 or so and I will feel at home.

Last Friday I found myself in one of my favorite small communities in North Dakota, having arrived there in a pretty unconventional way for someone who spent three years of her life reading MapQuest directions and filling the floor of her Chevy Lumina with soda bottles and granola bar wrappers. See, one of my dearest friends invited me to play music at an Opera House in her hometown on the other side of the state and I gladly agreed. So I called up the boys and invited them to join me on the four or five-hour  to drive to this unique and arts-focused agricultural town out east.

But Adam said no to my carpool request.

Adam said he’d fly us.

Remember Adam? Yeah, he flies airplanes.

Yup. Friday night we had a gig. So on Friday afternoon Adam loaded up three guitars, three suitcases, his brother and me in his small airplane  and we took off from the runway in our quickly sprawling small town to get us to the next small town on time.

Now, let me remind you that the last time I was in an airplane like this I had been drinking tequila for two days and decided it would be a good idea to jump out of it over the ocean.

That was stupid.

But this, it was…well…pretty lovely.

I had never left town this way or seen my world from this elevation with its frosted buttes, ribbon-like streams, perfectly placed tree rows and miles of trucks and pickups making their way to and from and in and out.

I could have been between them, pushing on to the next gas station to grab a cup of coffee and fuel up before I hit the road.

But I was in the sky with my bass player and his brother and we were going to New Rockford to see one of my very best friends and play music at an old Opera House the creative and inspired residents found special enough to save.

Along the badlands, over the big lake, across miles of fields and dozens of farmhouses Adam flew us across our home state.

One hour and 20 minutes later we touched down on a snow patched runway, unloaded the plane and hugged my friend hello as she swooped us up for a glass of wine and a cheeseburger before we stood under the lights,behind the microphones and on the stage of the Opera House in New Rockford.

And as I swayed and tapped my foot next to my friends playing bass licks and harmonica and singing along to my songs about home and hope and dusty roads and cowboys who have lost themselves, I could feel the people of New Rockford nodding their heads.

I could hear them laughing. I felt like they knew me, like they were my brothers or my grandparents or my little sister, aunts, uncles and old friends.

I felt like they’ve been on that road, like they’ve felt that kind of hurt, like they’ve been as unbelievably grateful while mind-numbingly torn.

I felt like they might have loved something the same way I love.

I am a songwriter. I am a songwriter in a small town.

I sing.

Photo by Sarah Smith Warren

All my life people have been telling me to move away from the comforts of these towns and these open roads that have grown me and made me who I am.  They tell me to leave while they wonder out loud why I’m not chasing the dream they’ve concocted for me, one that lies on the end of the road that leads to Nashville or New York or L.A, someplace bigger and full of more promise for someone like me.

Photo by Sarah Smith Warren

But on Friday I saw my small world from the clouds only to land among the people in my songs. And I would have stayed there forever with them like that, singing about our lives and drinking red wine and laughing.

Photo by Sarah Smith Warren

Yes, on Friday I fell in love with music again, just as I do every night I sing in the smoke of the Legion Club, above the noise of a Main Street or out into the night outside the window of this house.

Photo by Sarah Smith Warren

And I imagine Adam  could fly us all over this country and we could knock on the doors of big houses in bigger cities and ask them to listen. Adam has wings you know.

Photo by Sarah Smith Warren

But I’ve never been as comfortable up there as I have been tucked behind my cracked windshield and singing to the heart of America.

Click here to watch Husband and I chase cows and talk about the music and life in our small town.
www.jessieveedermusic.com

How seasons change.

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We’re right in the middle of a season change, and while it’s technically not winter yet, it kind of feels like it out there. I spend so much of my time documenting my world, watching the leaves fall from the trees and bend under the weight of ice and snow only to come out of hibernation a few months later in all of their green glory.

In North Dakota the four seasons cannot be mistaken. They don’t blend in to one another, they have their own distinct looks, smell and feel, changing everything under the skyT.

And because I am out there in it all year round, taking photographs so as not to miss a thing, today I’d like to share with you how drastically a spinning earth can change our world in this northern state.

Outside my door…


On the branches…


In the grass…


And the thorns…


In the sky…


Outside the barn…



And me.



Happy almost winter everyone. And don’t worry, spring always keeps her promise.

Life and Waffles

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It’s not too often that the threat of a being snowed in at the ranch for a couple days doesn’t mess with a series of laid out plans to make the 30 miles drive to work, move some cows, see a concert, put on an event or catch a plane out of this arctic tundra.

For Little Sister the freezing rain and blowing snow turned a four and a half hour drive to the Black Hills in South Dakota into something more like ten.

For my parents on a mission to see Bruce Springsteen perform in Minneapolis last night, it meant leaving early and timing their departure so the storm followed them, ensuring they had a chance to miss the snow, but not The Boss.

There was no way they were missing The Boss.

For others it meant a day off work, a day in the ditch, or a night spent sleeping in a hotel room when all you really wanted was to be home with your family snuggled up on the couch with something cooking on the stove.

For us it meant lighting the fireplace, rounding up the power tools and getting some shit done around here.

But ever since the first snow flake fell a few weeks ago I’ve been starving. So in preparation for the storm and the scheduled house construction project I stopped by the grocery store on my way out of town on Thursday to stock up on the essentials I would need to finally make some of those mouth-watering recipes I’ve been scoping out on Pinterest since last December.

Because I had no weekend gambling or concert plans and I was alright with watching the storm settle in nicely over our little cabin in the oaks, as long as I had the necessary ingredients to feed us.

Because I’m starving.

So as the freezing rain coated my world with ice on Friday and dumped a pile of snow on the whole mess on Saturday morning, I pulled on my wool socks and rummaged around in my cupboards for the flour and sugar and other baking type things…because today was the day I was going to attempt these: Homemade cinnamon roll waffles

I’ve had my eye on these little breakfast shaped pieces of heaven since last winter’s recipe pinning marathon. So on Saturday, I was determined that they come to life in my kitchen.

Now, I have to tell you that I am not a cook. Or a baker. Or a domestic diva. But the thought of these waffles sitting on my breakfast table waiting for a hot, buttery cinnamon drizzle followed by a sweet and sugary cream cheese frosting must have provided me with a sort of Betty Crocker out-of-body-experience.

Nothing was going to stop me from serving these babies up hot to me and my Carpenter Cowboy–not an overflowing waffle iron, not a microwave butter explosion, not a kitchen prepped to be torn apart for the impending tile project and certainly not my lack of culinary skills. I was going to make these things.

From scratch.

And I was going to eat as many as I wanted.

Because it was a snow day and this is what you do on snow days.

And I was starving.

So I did. And I’m telling you here because I was so damn proud of myself, the same way I am when I manage to accomplish anything worth eating in the kitchen. And I was wishing someone, besides Husband, was snowed in in this house to help me eat them and tell me how ass-kickingly domestic I’ve become…because there is only so much cooking-compliment-fishing the man can handle, no matter how much he likes the waffles.

Because the man can make his own damn waffles, so he’s not that impressed.

But I was. So to go along with our crock pot roast dinner, I made this.

Hasselback Garlic Cheesy Bread

Yup.

Ok, so it doesn’t look as mouth-watering as the photo attached to the original recipe, but, c’mon, I made this from freakin’ scratch people. Me. I did that.

Home. Made. Bread.

And when I say homemade, I mean it. Yup, the successful homemade waffles gave me the little nudge of confidence necessary to tackle the things you need to make bread from scratch– like yeast and Husband’s Kitchenaid Mixer.

So as my dearly beloved braved the weather to work on shoveling and checking the horses and other man-type things, I was inside trying to figure out how the hell to use the mixer, waiting for the bread to rise, rolling it out, putting it on a pan and waiting for it to rise some more.  I concocted my own garlic butter, used that pastry brush thingy that I shoved in the back of my drawer and brushed the top of the loaves, baking them until they turned a perfect golden brown. And when Husband came in from the cold, there I stood covered in flour with hands on my hips, content and proud at my delicious accomplishment, wishing again, that someone else was there to taste it, because surely they wouldn’t believe me.

Or him.

I mean really, for all of the things my husband is to me, he seems to lacks the enthusiasm gene.

Anyway, the snow fell and the weekend moved from Saturday into Sunday and we worked on transforming this house into the home we dreamed of.

I stained doors and we put up the backsplash in the kitchen.


Husband made sawdust and I swept the floor,  poured us a couple cups of coffee and then a couple glasses of wine. I braved the weather to snap some photos and he laughed when I came in covered in snow with frozen fingers.

We didn’t look at the clock, we just paid attention to the way the light fought its way through the clouds and into the house that smelled like breakfast bacon and cedar.

I didn’t fix my hair or put on makeup and for two days the only other souls we encountered had four legs and fur and were sleeping on our floor.

This is the way I imagined our winters in this house. And it isn’t often that those imagined things play out the way you thought them up. Especially when it comes to cooking and home construction. And I don’t know why it happened to work out this particular weekend. I don’t know why I didn’t have plans to play music, or to catch a party or a concert or gamble down in Vegas, except that I didn’t.

And neither did Husband.

Because more than anything in the world I think the two of us, whether or not we will admit it, really only want to be here, eating each other’s cooking, cleaning up after one another, following our plans and building our life nail by nail, board by board and tile by tile.

From scratch.

Like the waffles, which turned out pretty good, against all odds.

Happy Hunting

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Well, as promised, it’s looking pretty white and chilly out there this morning. But I have a feeling there’s no amount of snow and cold that can keep some burly men and brave women from celebrating North Dakota’s unofficial holiday–Deer Hunting Season.

The kids are off school, the coffee has been on since before the crack of dawn, the poker chips have been located, there’s Busch Light in the fridge and some women are preparing to be left behind for camo caps, jerky lunches and long, lonely walks in the wilderness.

Now some of you ladies are probably ok with fourteen or so days of watching what you want to watch, cooking (or not cooking) what you want to cook and a break from discussions about your online shopping addiction.

But for those of you who are curious about those long walks in the wilderness, I would like to invite you to revisit a little public service announcement I compiled a few seasons back (under the guidance of some of the most serious sportsmen in the county) to help make your first hunting attempt with your man a success.

The Ten Commandments for the Hunting Widow

And if you’re skeptical, here’s a little evidence that I’m qualified to deliver this advice.

Yup, that’s me, that’s my deer, that’s my man, that’s my denim jacket and that’s my neckerchief.

Read up and thank me when you bring home the big one!

Peace, love and venison!

Jessie

Once I was a mermaid.

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We are preparing for a weekend winter storm here and as I make a checklist of the things I should pick up for supper and plan for the things we can get done around  the house while we’re stranded, I’m feeling grateful for this unfinished home and worried about the families on the east coast braving winter weather after enduring such a devastating storm.

Sometimes we feel so safe here in the middle of the world, landlocked and grounded under familiar skies that promise nothing less than snow and wind and lightning and rain and winds that we lean into.

Winds that hold us up some days.

Sometimes that sky swirls and rages and touches the ground, scaring us, but not surprising us.

Because out here that sky is predictably unpredictable, but never has an ocean wave washed over our homes. Never has a river swallowed us up.

Never have I been forced to run from a storm.

And I can’t imagine it. I cannot imagine the ocean, a world so mysterious to this prairie girl, deep and powerful and dangerous and magical, splashing over my neighborhood, remodeling city streets, breaking down buildings, rearranging houses and changing my world.

When I was a young girl I used to sit on the granite rocks on the top of the hill beside my grandmother’s house and pretend that I was a mermaid swimming in the sea. I imagined those rocks were coves at the bottom of the ocean, the biggest stretching so high that the tip jutted out of the water, allowing my mermaid self to sit at the surface and look out at the mysterious landscape of the shore.

I don’t know why I wanted to be a mermaid. At that point in my life I had never touched the ocean, never felt the sand under my toes or tasted the salt of the water. In my mind the ocean was warm and clear and as fresh as the lake I swam in on hot summer days. I imagined the waves gentle and calm. I imagined whales making grand appearances on the surface. I imagined big ships and sailboats gently rocking between waves. I imagined diving with colorful sea creatures–giant turtles, yellow fish and orange sea horses. I imagined myself with long flowing hair and a sparkling tail, breathing under water in a world so colorful and crystal clear. So different from my own.

It never occurred to me that I could become seasick on my first boat ride across and ocean bay when I was seventeen.

I never dreamed the power of the waves could knock me down and roll me across the sandy ocean floor. I didn’t understand the sting of the salt on my skin or the bitter taste it could leave on my tongue.

I never thought my first encounter with a dolphin in the wild would find me as a grown woman on my hands and knees under the breakfast table of the cruise ship, nose pressed to the porthole glass, crying with excitement and wonder as the creature jumped and splashed and swam alongside our giant boat.

Our world is so big.
Our world is so big.
Our world is so big.

I see it on television, snippets of elation and suffering, misunderstanding and sacrifice, disagreements and hopefulness on the faces of people on top of mountains, inside skyscrapers, under the heat of a desert sun, along suburban streets and next to the ocean.

And I am landlocked and tied to a place that’s tied to me, under a sky that’s spitting out snow and threatening to blanket us in white for days on end. But I am not scared of the snow. The snow is my ocean and I feel like that mermaid I used to pretend to be, sitting out on a rock far away from the rest of the world that looks so small and mysterious from the unchangeable distance.

And as I say a quiet prayer of thanks to the prairie, I add a reminder to not hide too safely in the familiarity of this place that I dismiss the power of the ocean and the people who love the shore.

Because once I was a mermaid.

Music Music Music

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It’s a big day in America and I’d like to welcome you to it. As you make your way to the polls and anxiously await the anticipated announcement, I’d like to share an anticipated moment of my own.

My new album, “Nothing’s Forever,” is now available for your purchase and listening pleasure at these outlets

You’ve all been such loyal fans of my stories and photography, so I want to invite you to test out the music. It’s my first and most important passion, and the way I learned to express how I felt about my sense of place, love, life and moving on.

“Nothing’s Forever” is a compilation of 13 original songs, most written since I moved back to the ranch and started sharing what coming home feels like on this website. If you’re an avid follower, you might find familiar stories in this music.

I’m proud of this piece of work and the local musicians who helped me put it together. Listen and you will hear Pops’ voice and harmonica, the lonesome sound of of the steele guitar and dobro, and Adam’s bass backing stories about life in an oil town, the chill of winter, driving down red roads, love, and missing someone.

This is my third studio effort and one that has took a little growing, a little moving, and a soft and familiar place to land in order to create.

Thanks for listening.

I hope you love it.

I hope you share it with your friends.

Peace, love and music from the ranch.

Now, go VOTE!

Lonely weather

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Today it’s gray. Today the snow that fell on Friday turned to fog then rain then ice then water and now to mud stuck to the bottom of my boots.

We made breakfast for an old friend who was passing through town. He spent the night on our couch and stood next to Husband at his usual place next to the windows, watching as a few deer came in to water at the dam.

He said he forgot how beautiful it can be out here when the snow falls. Our friend doesn’t come home much when it’s white like this. He sipped his coffee and laughed and talked about cattle and his little girl while Husband fried the bacon and I cracked eggs for omelets.

This house is not finished, the stairs have no treads, the trim is not up and the basement is nothing but dirt and chill, but we have served breakfast in this house four weekends in a row, ever since the sky decided to cool us down and get us sitting closer together, pulling on more sweaters and searching for our wool socks.

I put out the place mats and our white wedding dishes, the butter and some blackberry jam and thought it might be ok if we waited on hanging the closet doors for the day.

I brewed another pot of coffee and decided if I never get a beautiful staircase or a bedroom in the loft, at least I have this kitchen and my grandmother’s old table surrounded by windows looking out on a frozen world slowly thawing.

And so I suppose it’s winter now. The clocks have fallen back and it will get dark soon. Our friend started up his pickup and checked the road report before backing out of our muddy drive and pulling out of our lives and into his own. I feel sleepy and chilled and about as colorful as this landscape.

The winter makes me feel lonesome for something and I don’t understand it. But  it’s familiar and comforting and it’s alright.

The cold settles in and all of the reasons I wanted to be a tree or a bird or a wildflower in the summer melt away like a snowflake hitting my tongue and I just want to be me, in my kitchen, serving coffee,  putting off chores and thinking about dinner.

I just want to be me, looking out the window of this unfinished house, listening to the people I’ve loved for years talk about the weather and Husband’s perfect omelets.

Me.

A little bit lonely, a little bit cold with a little bit of time on a Sunday to be alright with a gray world just the way it is for now.

This costume idea brought to you by breakfast.

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Well, Halloween’s officially here, though we already celebrated the shit out of it last Saturday at a house party down the road.

This costume idea brought to you by Saturday’s breakfast.  It’s sort of an educational effort, a farm to plate demonstration if you will.

Just doing what we can to promote the agriculture industry, working hard to keep it as realistic as possible.

And, although it’s hard to believe, I’d like to tell you that not a stitch of sewing went into any of these creations. I mean, you wouldn’t guess it, the way those wings look like they could just take a floppy, chicken flight at any moment.

And that egg? Looks so edible, so delicious.


If there’s an award for a series of costumes put together entirely of staples, rubber cement and zip ties, I will gladly accept it.

Halloween. We take it pretty seriously around here.




So I’d really like to know who the hell spiked the punch?


Peace, Love, Bacon and a Happy Halloween!

Love and weather.

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Today Americans are talking about the weather as we watch the television report on an epic storm that is promising to roll in with a fury on the shores of the east coast.

Tucked safely in the middle of the country under gray skies we spent our weekend watching the snow fall outside our windows. It was the first significant dusting we’ve seen since it melted off the earth last spring, fulfilling a promise of warmer weather like it does year after year. And so here we are staring another winter right between the eyes, wondering how we’re going to fare, wondering if the snow will pile high, wondering if it will be bearable.

There are times during the cold seasons I ask myself why I didn’t chose to live in a climate that promises endless 70 degree days. There are places like this, I’ve heard about them.

A lot of people in short-sleeved-shirts play tennis and golf and watch baseball there.

I contemplate this when I’m scraping ice off the windshield or half of the muddy yard off the bottom of my boots. I think about California when I’m leaning against a strong 30 mph winds or helping to shovel a stuck 4-wheel-drive out of a snow bank in the middle of a blizzard.

Yes, there are times I wonder why I tolerate such weather, but it’s never the day the first snow comes.

Because no matter how old I get or how many season changes I’ve lived through, there is still something oddly peaceful and calming about the first flakes drifting quietly from a gray sky, finding their way to the ground and turning the landscape from brown to white.

I feel the same way every year. It was no different on Saturday when I opened my eyes and looked out the window of the bedroom to find the ground covered in white. I woke husband and we just laid there on our stomachs, heads resting on our hands as we stared out the window and watched little birds hop from branch to branch, sending the fluff flying off the brown leaves and finally down to the ground.  We turned over and pulled the covers up to our chins, snuggling down against the chill in the house, the arrival of the snow suddenly making us feel less guilty about our desire to stay in bed a bit longer to recover from our 2 am arrival home that morning after my CD release party.

The gray and white weekend stretched over us like that blanket, laying heavy and soft on our bodies and welcoming us to sit close, make breakfast, drink coffee into the afternoon and keep the animals inside and at our feet.

In my life I have welcomed many first snows with this man, in different houses in various stages of our relationship. It’s a familiar feeling standing next to him in my wool socks as I press my nose to the window and he crosses his arms and leans back on his heels. We say the same things– we say it feels like Montana or Christmas. We wonder how long it will last, we talk about the chores we need to get done, we negotiate the movie we’ll watch.

We make soup.

And pretzels.

I snap a photo, not so much a documentation, but a ritual I’ve developed at the first sign of winter, as if capturing the change in weather will make the feeling stay.

In three months I will be thoroughly chilled. In three months I will have worn out my turtle necks, lost my left mitten and all evidence of ever having seen the sun and given up on the prayer of squeezing into my skinny jeans.

And today the snow that coated the ground this weekend has warmed up and turned the once frozen dirt to mud beneath my feet.

But this weekend I spent the first snow of the year with my first love. Standing next to him in the house we’re building watching the first flakes fall it occurred to me that in so many ways waking up next to this man is like waking up to the fresh and falling snow every morning–full of promise and quiet comfort, familiarity, fresh starts and wonder.

I may tire of this snow and the way it lays heavy on the frozen earth for months, but I have not grown tired of this man laying next to me, weaving his fingers in mine. I will never tire of his coffee, the dumplings he makes for his soup or the scruff of his beard grown in after a weekend without shaving.

California might have the sun and the waves of the ocean, but it does not have the snow.

It does not have the snow or the man I love standing next to the window in his bare feet watching it fall.