Category Archives: Family

Stories about the characters in my life

Something about the pug and the radio

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25

Top ‘o the afternoon to ya! Hope you’re all enjoying a beautiful St. Patty’s Day. I am going to confess here that I am wearing gray and black, and not the required green and feeling a little guilty about it. But I am in mourning, because today Chug the pug is getting his eyeball removed. After his unfortunate run-in with a porcupine, it seems the porcupine won.

And the eyeball lost.

Sweet mercy.

The burial (of the eyeball, not the pug) is tomorrow.

RIP Adorable Eyeball

Anyway, on a more exciting note:  the reason I’m popping in today is to let  you all know that  my story about one of the greatest cowboys I know will be airing on Prairie Public this afternoon at approximately 3:46 pm and 7:46 pm central time.

You can listen to it live here at Prairie Public’s website, or if you ‘re in the ND area, tune in!

All of my commentary will also be available online after the fact on the Prairie Public Radio “Hear it Now” program page so you can listen at your convenience.

I am so excited to share this story with a broader audience because it is a story about a man with the most optomistic of attitudes, a man who has passion as big as the prairie skies and has taught me so much about knowing who you are and doing what you love.

My pops.

Read the original post, The Art of Cow Cooperation and get ready, like I am, for the cows to finally come home!

Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have one more moment in honor and memory of the eyeball:

Thank you.

See ya on the radio.

Ice, rocks, slippery shoes and a sweeper thing.

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12

Little known fact: Curling is a sport.

An Olympic one.

Another little known fact: I have curled. Once.

Not so little known fact: I am not an Olympian.

And I have no idea what these people are doing.

But curling is a part of my life. Well, at least it is once a year.

Because husband and I have on our life schedule, you know, the one that we all keep with the holidays and birthdays and big events penciled in, a weekend titled “Curling Extravaganza.” And it is a weekend that hasn’t been missed for a good four to five years.

See, my sister in-law married a Canadian, a great man who grew up in the friendly, neighboring country to the north. And if you were ever wondering how people up in the north country keep themselves entertained during the winter months without mountains to ski down, I have two words that I believe to be quite accurate considering my experience and close proximity to Canadians and their fine country:

Ice Slabs.

And up here in North Dakota we are practically Canadians anyway (and proud to display the maple leaf flag) so the art of ice hockey and curling has trickled down a bit to the U.S.–well at least a few miles anyway.

And so with the merging of our fine families, curling entered my life.

But before I go any further, I suppose I better attempt to describe to you, if you aren’t already enlightened, what curling actually involves. And because there is nobody around to help coach me through it, you will have to hear it in my own words. Ok.

Curling is:

  • One ice slab, painted with red and blue lines and circles
  • Sixteen (8 to each team) red and blue 42 lb rocks or “stones” made out of solid, polished granite.

Two teams of four decked out in thermal type clothing and something I like to call a slippery shoe  holding a broom-sweeper looking thing. I suggested helmets, but apparently that isn’t part of the dress code.

The sweeper thing...

The slippery shoe. Typically worn on the right or left foot. Shown here on the shoulder. Although I didn't ask, I am assuming that is where they put it when not in use...or just to confuse people like me

The team...no helmets.

  • Some hollering

    Yes, it is a spectator sport...

  • Lots of  laughing and quite a bit of beer

Beer, mixed drinks...whatever. That's what cup holders are for.

Ok, got it?

So you take all of the above ingredients and combine them to get to the object of the game, which appears to me to be a bit like shuffleboard on ice, although I have no idea how to play shuffleboard either.

But the point is that each team takes turns sliding the rocks across the slab of ice to land them as close as they can to the “house,” which is somewhere in the blue and red target on either end of the slab.

They use the broom looking thing to sweep the space in front of the rock in order to melt the bumpy ice and keep the rock moving where they prefer the rock go.

And they want to rock to go to the center of the target. Because that’s how you accumulate points–the team with the rocks resting closest to the center of the target at the conclusion of the round, or “end,” gets points (how many points is something I have yet to figure out).

An “end” is completed when each team is finished throwing their rocks.

And the team with the most points at the conclusion of the game wins.

They tell me there are eight or ten ends in each game…but maybe there are more…

They tell me it’s easy.

I tell them I’ll be at the bar.

Yeah, there's a bar at the curling club...

Anyway, I am confused just trying to briefly explain the logistics to you, so I can’t imagine that you have continued reading….

But if you’re still with me and feel like you might really want to learn how to play, I’ll give you my father-in-law’s phone number and he will be more than happy to explain. Just make sure you have a good three to eight hours to spare. Or you can click here to learn more than I will ever know about the great sport.

But there is one thing I do know: A curling tournament is called a bonspiel. And that is where we were this weekend. At a bonspiel where spirited northerners gather to curl–Canadians, North Dakotans, young, old, men, women, experts, athletically challenged and everyone in between. Some of the teams that attend have been together for years and traveled to enough bonspiels together to justify purchasing matching shirts. Some teams only curl together once a year. Some teams consist of relatives and best friends. Some relatives are friendly rivals because there is no way they can exist on the same team. But all teams compete with one thing in mind–the love of the strategy and friendly competition and camaraderie.

And that’s my favorite part about the sport. Because even at its highest level, this attitude prevails.

So here is where I share with you one more little known fact: The USA Curling National Championships were held in my college town of Grand Forks, ND in 2004 and I was asked to sing the National Anthem. I did and I am pretty sure it aired on like ESPN 24 and that is as close to famous as I’ll ever come.

Anyway, that was also my first experience with the sport. As a public relations student at the time of the tournament we took the bonspiel on as part of a professional PR project. I remember asking the competitors at this insanely successful level, what was so special about curling, and every competitor, young and old,  replied: “it’s the people.”

An action shot of one of my favorite people...my sister-in-law...

And that is my favorite part about the sport–it just doesn’t matter who you are because at the end of the day all the competitors really want to do is get together, get out of the house and laugh over beer and friendly competition.

They don’t care if you just rolled in off of the ranch in your dorky boots and wool cap. They are so friendly and make it look so easy that you actually believe this is a sport you could be good at. And they convince you to put on the slippery shoe and grab a broom thing and give it a try.

A bin of sweeper things...

So you do. And you fling that 42 lb rock across the ice slab sending it off into the wild blue yonder or over into the other lane while you try to gain your balance on the ice that you didn’t believe to be so slippery just a moment ago. And so you do it again, with coaching from both teams, concentrating so hard on staying standing that you have no idea what the score is or how many “ends” you’ve played or why you chose to wear these ridiculous snow boots today or who is on your team and why is everyone walking towards the door and shaking hands leaving you standing on the far side of the slab yelling “Hey guys, is it over? Hheeeyyya gguuuyyyyaaasss!’

And when you finally make it to the other end of the rink (rink, is it called a rink?) they hand you beer to take the edge off while they tell you that you have just curled (for your first time ever) against the World Junior Champions and assisted your new-found team in losing so bad they decided to quit early.

Then you laugh and go upstairs and a have a few more beers in preparation to redeem yourself at a couple of sports you actually know something about.

Karaoke.

And dancing.

I never fail to kill them with the dancing.

That may or may not have happened to someone I know at some point in time.

Thanks for another successful curling extravaganza Williston Basin Curling Club.

Until next year, I’ll be on the frozen dam out back practicing with my broom and prairie rock, preparing to blow those Junior World American Canadian Champions of the Universe curlers out of the frozen water.

I guess I better get shoveling.

For a lifetime…

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I suppose you haven’t noticed that it’s Valentine’s Day today have you? I suppose you haven’t heard the announcements blaring from your T.V. or examined the varieties of chocolate and pink and red things at the store.

I may or may not have caught the hint. So ok, good morning. Happy Valentine’s Day. It’s beautiful out here at the ranch this morning. The snow has been melting all weekend, and although it has left behind slush and mud and water, a lot of water, in its wake, it has also exposed some dirt, some patches of earth, glorious earth, that just days ago resembled nothing other than a frozen tundra.

And I love the way it’s making me feel, all refreshed and new. Hell, I was so into the idea of a spring day that I whipped out my vacuum yesterday and even cleaned a window or two…and maybe a toilet. Oh, and it’s making the animals feel fabulous too. The dogs have been soaking up the sun, lapping up the melt with their pink tongues, horses on the hills are laying on their sides in an open spot of ground letting the sun warm their furry bodies, the deer are rejoicing in the relief of the snow drifts and the coyotes are howling a good morning tune to me as I type this.

The dogs are howling back.

It’s a perfect morning to be celebrating love and all those mushy things…

…and so I am thinking about love and all those mushy things and what it means to me this year. Because it’s Valentines Day. And because I have been thinking about this relationship I have with husband lately because I have been working on planning our 10-year class reunion.

What? When did that happen?

And as soon as I got over the shock that this year will be the year we gather with our old classmates and attempt to explain what the hell we are all doing now and how the hell we got there and why we do or do not have little ones attached to our hips or loves attached to our arms, I realized, shockingly, that my love has been attached to mine for a good thirteen to fourteen years, give or take.

Almost half my life.

And that little piece of information has held my interest lately. Because not only does it mean that I caught husband’s eye during a time in my life when my mouth was full of braces with the little purple rubber band things and I hadn’t yet mastered the art of my hair and my favorite accessory was a smiley face necklace. And if he could fall in love with me then, I think I’m out of the woods when my hair turns a bit more gray and I start wearing Spanks. At least I hope. But it also means if all goes well and we stay healthy and relatively sane throughout the course of our lives, husband and I, at the end of it all, will have spent a lifetime together.

 

Young FFA love.(Future Farmers of America, for those of you who don't recognize the acronym) Good Lord.

Really, thinking back on it, it already feels like we have, because how much of your life do you recall before you hit twelve years old?   I suppose that’s the high school sweetheart thing that we crazies who found love early and held on tight for whatever reasons have that maybe can’t be explained or rationalized to our friends. Yeah, we stay out of the loop when asked for dating advice and take the phone calls about commitment and then try to explain ourselves.

But how do you explain why anyone holds on so tight–through adolescence, through breakups and make-ups and graduation and college parties and living in separate cities and working long hours and giving a ring and a promise out loud…a promise you had been making to each other when your age ended in teen and you had no idea what “I promise” and “forever” really meant.

No idea.

My grandparents on my mom’s side have been married over fifty years. They met and fell in love in high school and married soon after. Their lives took them across the country, across the ocean and back again. Their love gave them four beautiful daughters, eleven grandchildren and now six great-grandchildren. And they are two of the most influential people in my life when it comes to living with purpose and loving one another (and those around you) with everything you possess.

I have the privilege of being very close to them. They spent their autumns after retirement living and taking care of this very house down the road from my childhood home. And the summer after I graduated from college, the summer I was getting ready to marry husband, a boy I fell in love with who turned into a man with a ring, I lived with these high school sweethearts in their home in Minnesota.

And I am so glad I did, because what I witnessed gave me hope for lasting, true and honest love.

Lifetime love.

Between those walls and behind the windows that faced the lake, the sweethearts kept a quiet routine. My grandmother would take her coffee into bed in the morning and catch up on the news in the nightgown my grandfather no doubt bought her for Christmas that December. My grandfather would dress and read the paper, maybe out in the living room, or on the lawn on a sunny day.  After the news and coffee, my grandfather would most likely make a list of what needed to get done that day—mow the lawn, fix a light switch, clean the boat—and my grandmother would work in her garden, get ready to meet friends in town to play bridge, or take a swim or a walk and be home in time to fix her love some lunch and make dinner plans.

And perhaps this isn’t or hasn’t always been true of their life together, as both of them were working parents raising four children in the city, but since I can remember the two of them always sat down to eat with each other. That was one thing that always struck me as important. Also, my grandfather generally always drives and always fills the gas. My grandmother has her own checking account, knows exactly how to fix her husband’s perfect sandwich and always comments to her girls, her grandkids, about how handsome her husband is, how lucky she is to have him…and then quickly adds, “he’s a pretty lucky guy too, I’m not so bad myself.”

And in the winter of their lives together, this carries on. I am sure my mother has much more to say about the relationship of her parents, the affection, the adoration, the breakfast in bed and the chivalry. But as their grandchild their love for one another has been a gift to me.

Because it has taught me (and bear with me here because I think it is especially important on this hyped up day with all of the pink hearts dangling above our heads and jewelry commercials blaring through the speakers) that love, long term love, even if it began in the fragile and naïve stages of your life, isn’t about the red roses or the diamond ring, although my grandfather has shown that those gestures are important too, especially on days like these…

…in fact, as I sit here I imagine that down there in Arizona, where my grandparents are making their winter home, my grandpa has ordered up some flowers and perhaps even made his sweetheart breakfast in bed.

And my grandmother probably has dinner reservations for tonight.

They’ve had practice with this holiday and these types of celebrations are important to them…

But after the holiday and the grand gestures, their love is about a bit of something else…

…it is about genuine affection and knowing when to put mayo on his sandwich, or taking a moment to make him a sandwich at all. It is about space to play your bridge game and take a swim or a walk or a book club date and the trust that there is someone at home with the light on. It is knowing when to stop the tears and when to just wipe them up when they fall. It is holding hands and making decisions based on what makes you feel good, together, and what allows you to soak up the sun and laugh at the rain.

It is about worrying about the same things while one of you is designated to hold it together. It is about being proud of each other. It is about small gestures done to make the other’s life a little easier—coffee in the morning, a full tank of gas, perfectly folded underwear, compromising on the type of milk to keep in the fridge.

It’s about complete and utter confidence…in yourself…in each other.

And although I don’t doubt my grandparents have had their fair share of hard times, I am going to go ahead and take a wild guess that they have made the conscious choice to make sure they have just as many good times to make up for it.

That’s the way they are. That’s how their love goes.

And thanks to them, I have hope that my love can go that way too…

…from braces to gray hair…

…for a lifetime.

Under this roof.

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This is what I had going on with my morning coffee today.

And this was my company.

Don’t be jealous. I know it’s hard.

See, my little big sister let me babysit little man, not just for a few hours, but for a complete sleepover stay at my house on the ranch thirty miles away from her.

Believe it.

She trusted me with her baby and his burping habits, tiny socks, and even tinier feet. She packed up a bag filled with gadgets to deal with poop, devices for boogers, wipes and clothes and blankets and baby blue outfits and stuffed toys that sing and glow and oh, those tiny, tiny socks and sent me on my way, down the snow covered road.

I was in heaven.

I was also freaked out about the fact that there was a little human strapped in his seat placed so helplessly in my care.

So I drove approximately three miles an hour and by the time I got the guy home, he was seven years old.

And a little hungry.

So I unloaded my tiny, not quite seven-year-old nephew and all of the things that go with him into our little house in the barnyard. Husband and I spent a good thirty to forty-five minutes trying to figure out that “Pack ‘n Play” thing they invented to replace the much easier to assemble, but not so convenient to transfer “Play Pen” and just like that our house was transformed into a quiet little place with a couple boring adults roaming around worrying about what to cook for supper, to a cozy, lovey, snuggly nest filled with questions about how long to warm up a bottle and if that was a poop or just a stinky fart coming from his adorable little bottom (little man’s, not husband’s).

Oh, yes there was all of that plus baby talk and burping and diapers and cooing and lullaby singing and my heart was so full as little man drifted off to sleep in the nook of my arm. And as I laid that perfect little guy down in his temporary bed in the corner of our house, it occurred to me that what I was doing, in this exact spot, under the bright stars shining down on the roof of this very house was something precious that has quietly and innocently been done for generations.

And it got me thinking about all of the children who were brought into this very home and held tight and read to at night and fed ice cream from the deep freeze and pancakes in the morning.

My grampa reading me bedtime stories...

Little man’s momma was one of them. And so was I. Although my memory doesn’t reach as far back to recall my time spent in the “Play-pen” in the spot where I laid my nephew down, I do remember piling into my grandmother’s bed with my cousins for a night of giggling and dreaming.

I do remember ice cream on the front porch, family photos on the couch, my grandfather’s chair, my gramma’s popcorn, board games, family Christmases, Jello Salad, the kid’s table and the way the house smelled…

Push-ups with gramma on the front porch. That's me in the hot-pink pants...

…and still smells sometimes.

And each of my sisters, each of my cousins will have their own memory of the place as children: filling up the plastic swimming pool on the lawn with the hose on hot days, the pajamas gramma made for us on her sewing machine, being rocked to sleep, the bunk beds, the adventure of gramma and grampa’s house on the ranch.

My first visit to the ranch...

No doubt my father, aunt and uncle and their cousins hold their own fond memories of childhood spent under this roof as well…though I don’t feel I hold the words to attempt those stories–those emotions. They are much too important. Much too precious.

And no, sweet baby nephew won’t remember the day I rocked him to sleep in the same spot where my grandma rocked her babies and her grand-babies off to dreamland.

Gramma and me

He won’t remember how his uncle held him in the easy chair and laughed as little man grabbed onto the neck of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. Truth be told, it is possible that this baby could be one of the last generations to drift off to dreamland under this roof. And with that thought I can’t help but think how much my grandparents, his great-grandparents, would have loved to have held him and watch him laugh and make him pancakes when he grew teeth and then give him gum when his momma wasn’t around to say no.

And although I would have loved to bring my own baby home to this house someday, time and life will not allow it. But as we are making plans to build ourselves a new home over the hill I am making plans to keep this one in tact so that my cousins and my sisters might bring their children from down the road, across the state and across the country, to spend a night under the stars shining on the roof over the house their great-grandfather built– a house that held them so tight with imagination, warm smells and love.

But for now I am thankful I am here to show little man, and his tiny feet, around the place…

I am thankful he was here with me…

…under this roof.

The pet that can’t be trusted…

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Oh Chug the pug. You are in big trouble.

I fear you cannot be trusted.

I fear that you never could.

I should have known better when I left you alone with the guys last week. Alone in the little house with your couch and your fluffy blankets and your cats with no responsibility but to sleep and be so kind as to step outside, scratch on the door, bark, whine, something, when you had to poop.

But oh, you could not be bothered could you?

Between all of the lounging, snoring, snuggling, snarfing, sniffing and watching the boob tube,  you happened to find time to do things, wonderful things, that distracted you from your urgent bowel movements.

Like munch on a slipper or two…

…and a tube of Tough Actin’ Tanactin, wherever you happened to come across such a thing.

How was that for ya?

And then, you know, just to get the taste of fungal cream out of your mouth, husband’s remote control.

And then a highlighter for good measure. The one that was sitting innocently on the coffee table at a height that you would never exert yourself to reach if, you know, it was easier for me to just lift you on up there. But there must have been something so attractive about that neon marker.

Something that looked delicious.

Delicious like that full bottle of Coca Cola you found the time to gnaw the lid off of.

That was sure nice of you. You must have been so thirsty. I really do feel bad about that.

But not as bad as I feel about the fact that the toe of my favorite black pump is missing.

The black pump that was hidden away in the depths of my closet, because life choices have restricted pump wearing for me lately.

You must have had to really exert yourself on that one.

I hope you are not too tired.

This winter must really be rough on you, acting out like this.

And if this unruly, rebellious behavior is about the outfits:

The trapper hat.

The Santa suit.

To that I send my sincere apologies. But in my defense, humiliating you for my enjoyment was one of the main reasons I granted you the permission to enter this family in the first place, so you might as well get used to it.

You exist for my entertainment.

And cuddling.

But I’m mad at you right now so I’m going to need a bit of time.

Because it’s bad enough that you cannot be trusted.

Bad enough your nose squishes up like that.

Bad enough that your tail curls and the barrel that is your body finds its way in the space next to me, your paws work to unfold my protesting arms.

Bad enough that you are in big, big trouble mister.

And worse that, frankly, you just don’t care.

A quick Christmas recap (with some humiliation splashed in)

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Outside the Christmas window

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!

Hope you had a great one!

Love you all.

A Country Church Christmas

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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.

I am sure of it.

A very non-Martha tradition

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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…

I demand a re-count!

Oh well…

Merry Christmas!

See ya at church.

‘Tis the season-to give, to love, to hold on tight.

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My dear friend and cousin has recently revealed that she is using her blogging efforts to raise awareness and money for a different cause each day until Christmas. A very clever way to celebrate the 12 day  countdown to the holiday (well, now its 10). My cousin is nothing if she isn’t clever– so inspired by her company’s collective efforts raising money for a local charity that she wanted to pay it forward in her own way.

Because all of that giving for all of that need got cousin feeling so incredibly blessed to have a healthy, smart and fabulously blonde family who loves her, a job that pays her to do something she does well, and a house in the middle of the mid-west that provides her enough room to have members of her extended family play Guitar Hero and sleep in the basement for days on end and go reasonably unnoticed.

So she decided to take her company’s lead and use her talents to see if little ‘ol her could make a difference somehow, reaching out to her friends and family via the fabulous world wide web to spread the word about charities and causes that mean something to her.

And damned if, within the first two days, she hasn’t raised some money for these great causes…

Which got me thinking a few things:

1. I am related to a pretty amazing woman and I had good taste when I decided to look up to her. She was a really enticing role model in that twinkling Rodeo Queen sash, sparkly shirt and crown.

Here she is teaching me to read...she probably put me in that dazzling dress too.

2. This world is full of wonderfully generous and fantastically talented and giving people. And because of the little invention known as the internet, I get to know some of these people–even the ones I’m not related to–and you amaze me every day

(Insert super hot photo of you)

3. What if?

Because my life is not without its challenges, but it is pretty damn good. And because I have chosen to share details (mouse incidents, cow poop, bad outfits and all) over this thing my momma calls “the interweb,”  I have been lucky enough to be reminded by you (who I’m not even related to), that yes indeed, it’s a wonderful world. A wonderful, wide, beautiful world full of laughing, naughty and angelic children, Christmas trees of all shapes and sizes, stunning sunsets and families who really know love, wonderfully witty sarcasm that I truly appreciate and people who share in my passions and can relate to a life spent doing something you believe in.

And so we open our laptops and turn on our desktop computers and from our offices, coffee shops, living rooms, and bedrooms we learn each other’s names, marvel at backyards across the country and oceans, laugh at shared embarrassing moments, ooh and ahh over home decor and delicious recipes, listen to troubles and hear the call to give.

And thanks to all of this sharing, all of the feedback I have received, all of the warm wishes and good vibes, my eyes have opened up wider to the life I lead, enticing me to live it better, smile a bit wider, be more appreciative.

Because, yes indeed my backyard is breathtaking.

Yes sir the pug is cute (although he does resemble the Grinch, even without his Santa suit).

Yes ma’m my family reminds you of the Grizwalds, but that’s ok cause it makes for good material.

And yes indeed life is good.

So here comes that inevitable question that sneaks up on everyone in the middle of a life that’s going pretty well thank you very much.

“What if?”

What if it wasn’t.

What if the world gave me lemons and no sugar for lemonade?  What if I took a wrong turn down the road less traveled and it lead me to regrets and disappointments and mistakes that I could not take back–bad memories I could not shake.

What if my parents didn’t love me enough to dress me like this?

What if this was something I only found on postcards in gift shops I traveled through instead of what I see when I look out my window in the mid afternoon?

What if my family hadn’t sacrificed, struggled, pushed and loved enough to make this our home….

…opening the door for me to make it mine?

What if I didn’t have friends, ridiculous friend, who indulge my need to act like a five year old every once and a while, standing by with a giant rainbow umbrella in case it rains (or we get sprayed by the hose)?

What if he did not fall in love with me at age 14 and continue to hound me for my hand until I gave in…

…what if it didn’t become the best decision of my life?

And what if the best decision of my life didn’t happen upon an advertisement in a gas station and then promptly call the number to have this delivered to our door?

And what if I had nothing to make my face look like this while laughter comes booming out of my lungs?

Who would I be then?

Where would I be if all of the moments I found myself in, all of the decisions and heartbreak and happy times and kisses didn’t align to bring me to this point of planning and enjoying a life I’m not so sure I’ve done anything to deserve?

I don’t know. But more than likely I’d be fine…maybe vacuuming the floor in a suburb somewhere living with a man who wears a tie to work instead of a neckerchief (because I’m convinced if I lived in a suburb I would vacuum more), or in an apartment in a city with a couple goldfish, happy and content with the hustle and bustle , or on the road with my guitar…

…but maybe not.

See, that’s the thing about life that baffles me every day…there is no way to know what our lives would be if we broke a heart instead of made it ours forever, chose the east instead of the west, the job instead of the wedding, home instead of leaving, children instead of  travel, a pug instead of a goldfish…well, I take that back…I pretty much know  how that would turn out…it’s hard to get a goldfish to wear a Santa suit.

Anyway,  it doesn’t really matter does it? We could play that game all day, but it won’t get us anywhere. The only thing we can do in this world as living, breathing people, is to be grateful and take care of one another. To be kinder than necessary. To hug a little harder. Smile a little more. Reach out.

Because if the people you meet everyday are lucky enough to have a roof over their head, they go home each night to fight their own battles, live with their own regrets, miss someone so much it hurts, and  hold on tight to the things they love, even if they don’t make sense, just like you and me.

So thanks cousin. Thanks for reminding me this season, while I’m sitting under the enormous Christmas tree plucking glitter out of my hair, to breathe in this life I love and then give back to a world that has held me so close as a lucky one.

Because I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. No one does.

All we have is each other…

…and this very moment to be good. To do good.

And hold on tight.

Visit shantastic.blogspot.com to keep up on cousin’s charity suggestions and spread the word.

Or give, if you feel so inclined.

Thanks for reading and thanks for making my world a little wider, my days a little brighter.

And our world is quiet again…no thanks to the cat.

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So ranch life slows down a little around here in the winter when the snow is up over my knees, the horses have been turned out for the season and the cows are off to be fed up nice and plump in a more civilized area for the winter. So we go about our business, moving snow, graining the horses, feeding the dogs, feeding ourselves and taming the cats.

The cats we have in our homes to keep the mice away. The damn dirty rodents who are looking to get a taste of the crumbs we may have dropped on the floor (not that I would ever drop anything) or the sunflower seeds we have hidden in the closet.

I am not a fan of mice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the type of girl to stand up on a chair and scream bloody murder as the sneaky little rodent makes his way across my kitchen floor. But I have been known to wake husband out of a deep, dreamy sleep to go check out that squeaking noise I heard. And I may have used the phrase “it’s your manly duty” to convince him to find the creature in the depths of the dark night while wiping his eyes and wondering how on earth it came to this as he proceeded with caution in the war zone area of the living room in his full on mouse hunting stance…in his underwear.

(No underwear photo available)

See that’s what usually happens around here. No matter how many cats we have, these wild animals turned domestic house pets usually wind up finding just enough to eat in their food dishes so as to completely lose their taste for the hunt. Well, at least their taste for hunting real, moving, heart beating pests.

Funny thing, they seem to be really good at attacking my curtains, rugs and that little patch of sun that streams through the window and onto the carpet. Yup, they’ve killed all of those things flat dead about three hundred and thirty times already.

But mice? Eh. They’ll get to it later.

Which brings me to my point about how there is never a dull moment, even in the depths of winter. Because my momma lives down the road…and she has a cat.

A devil cat.

A cat I picked out for her from the Humane Society because she reminded me of a feline we had when we were growing up named Belly (don’t ask). But I distinctly remember warning my dear mother not to blame me if all hell broke loose in their house when I brought this kitten home.

Because they asked for it.

(The devil herself)

And I delivered.

But who would have known that this cat would turn out to be all spice and not a hint of sugar. This pet does not allow cuddling, moves from room to room at lightning speeds, has eyes that stare into your soul and read all of your most hidden secrets and swats at my feet from underneath the chair every time I come to visit while I scream “Why? Why? I saved your life!”

And most annoying, if not the most unreasonable thing of all, this cat has a taste for high places and makes her home on the top of my momma’s cupboards, between the wine glasses and the fine china. A smart and perfect spot really, because if you make any sudden swatting “dammit cat get down” motions, the devil cat will indeed flee, leaving a wake of glassware and fancy, shiny things behind her.

So there she sits on top of her world despite my momma’s best efforts to find her a new favorite spot.

But this could work out right? I mean, if she’s going to be up there at least she has a great view of any rodent shaped intruders and she can finally put the moves she uses tackling my feet to good use.

So when my momma called one evening during dinnertime to let me know that pops was gone and there was a minor emergency that involved a mouse, I told her not to worry. I told her that me and my feet have been suffering and grooming this cat for a moment like this. Do not worry. That cat is ready for battle. She hasn’t lost the taste for blood.

I know from personal experience.

So I hung up the phone and carried on with my tuna noodle hot dish (my night to cook).

And when the phone rang again I thought for sure it would be a report on how her heroic pet finally earned her keep and swallowed the tiny beast whole and then got back up on her throne of wine glasses and waited for her next attack.

I put down the noodles and answered the phone.

Me: “Hi mom. Did she get it?”

Momma: “Oh, hi Jess. Ummm, well, no…no she didn’t.”

Me: “Really? Well what is she doing? Where’s the mouse?”

Momma: “Yeah, well…yeah. The cat? The cat is on top of the piano…”

Me: “Ok.”

Momma: “And, well, the mouse is on top of my curtains.”

Me: “What? What do you mean on top of your curtains?”

Momma: “Well, you know the curtains in my family room?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Momma: “Well the mouse is sitting on top of the curtain rod and the cat is on top of the piano right next to it–just staring. Just staring at it…”

Me (with a noodle hanging out of my mouth):  “The mouse is on the curtain rod? It’s just balancing up there like a little rodent gymnast?”

Momma: “Yeah. Well, and they’ve been like this for a good thirty minutes…I have my broom here and I’m just waiting for her to make her move…”

Me: “Oh gaawwwdddd. What are you going to do with the broom mom?”

Momma: “Well, I don’t know…”

Me (running out the door): “We’re coming over.”

So I grabbed husband who was secretly happy to be saved from the tuna hot dish and glad to be dressed in more appropriate mouse slaying gear and we drove down the road in anticipation of saving my momma from having to use her beloved broom for anything other than sweeping.

(Certain to be prepared this time)

I told husband she must be exaggerating. I cannot picture this. A mouse, balancing on a curtain rod?  My momma really has a flair for the dramatics, so you see, I come by it naturally…and on another note, she really should start wearing her perscribed glasses and maybe she’s on some medications I am not aware of…oh, maybe I should be worried about her…and….

….oh…oh really? Really?

(small photo taken inconspicuously with a super secret camera phone)

Really.

And while momma and I huddled together in a corner holding our breath with our hands to our chins, husband took one look at the situation, walked right over to the mouse perched up on top of a three inch diameter life line having flashbacks to his rodent childhood and all of the things he would do if the sweet Lord would save his tiny little mouse heart from a death with whiskers that had been staring him in the face for the last thirty minutes (which on mouse time, I am sure is more like a good week and a half) and reached out his manly, hero hand, grabbed the trembling creature by the tail and threw him out the door.

Game over.

Breath released.

Broom back in the closet.

Tuna noodle casserole still not delicious.

Momma found her glasses.

Cat returned to her perch.

And our world is quiet again…

…for now…

But maybe momma wants to trade in the demon cat for something more like this:

(I mean, they seem to get along…)

Just a thought.

Here’s to a rodent free weekend.