Category Archives: Family

Stories about the characters in my life

The passion of the pets

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I know. I admit it. I have before. I am obsessed with animals. I take too many pictures of them, I talk too much about them, they are too often the subjects of my mind’s meanderings. But c’mon they are hilarious. My animals. They are hilarious and naughty and sweet and crazy (especially the cats) and cuddly and fascinating, really.

Plus, I don’t have kids, so what else am I supposed to obsess over?

My eccentric tendencies on this subject became more evident last night when I was on the front porch talking on the phone with my best friend. We were trying to catch up on the latests: TV shows, her brother’s wedding, who is having or just had babies, what’s for dinner. And in between movie critiques and recipes my best friend would pause to save her three year old child from tumbling down the steps, driving his toy tractor in the street, slamming his fingers in the door and certain death. You know, important, motherly things.

And in between those pauses, I was yelling at the dogs.

You know, trying to save the cats from certain death…

Come on down. I won't hurt ya, I promise.

Yeah, yeah, me neither. I also promise.

I think I'm quite comfortable up here, thanks.

Well, we can all see here whose responsibilities might save the world some day. Or at least have a chance to become president.

I don’t think they are electing pugs to office, although some have tried their hand…er, I mean…paw.

My best friend and I laughed together at the chaos, each one of us enjoying the heck out of the life that surrounds us. I love hearing about how my friend had to duct tape her three year old’s tux at the wedding, how he loves tractors so much it’s the only word he uses and I absolutely melt when he gets on the phone to say “hi Dessy” (that’s how he says my name…ahh, so cute.)

I’m not so sure my best friend is equally impressed with the stories about how my pug sleeps with the cats and then proceeds to chase them up the tree–so I spare her the phone chat with him.

Anyway, my conversation with her got me thinking about what it is that makes me keep these animals around. Because they are naughty (did I say that already?) and dirty, like the furniture way too much and, occasionally, they smell a lot like poop.

But sometimes they are so much like humans it blows my mind.

So come along with me here to explore the multiple personalities of the animals that make their homes at the funny farm.

Let us begin with the horses:

This is Tucker. He only loves us for the treats. He follows me around the barnyard with his mouth like this, checking my pockets and taking little nibbles. Yes, every pocket.

Can you say “goose?”

Relentless.

Unicorn? Alien?

No, Tucker again. Tucker and the burs he got into, most likely on his scavenger hunt for treats.

Spooky.

And kinda pathetic.

Stormy. He might look bored, and that’s because he is. Bored with life, no matter the weather, no matter the job, his pace doesn’t exceed what you see here.

Stormy’s old.

The mule. She’s old too. She runs into things…and people.

She’s blind.

Nuff said.

Now for the cats, who have yet to be named. I’ll take any suggestions. Right now they are affectionately referred to as “Don’t” and “Get Down.”

Here they are climbing into a boot.

This is mischief.

This is not helpful, thanks anyway. This is disruption…and disobedience.

Climbing the walls. Monkey business.

Tipping the vase, knocking over the frame to use it for his own personal stepping stool in order to reach the only sparkly decoration in the entire house. This is sure to end in disaster.

This is damage.

And after all of that chaos and damage done, this is finally…peace.

On to my beloved lab, who has one emotion that seeps out of his soul…

Pure, unfiltered, untouchable…

Joy.

And last but not least, the pug, who has saved me from a life without drama, snoring, curly tails and every expression an old man would convey.

He has taught me what it really means to….

…relax with such passion your face skin sags…

…never back down…

…ever…

…smile so wide it consumes your entire face…

…really not give a damn…

…sport an attitude…

…have your best friend’s back…even if it means getting your paws wet…

…and love with all you’ve got inside that furry chest…

May we all live with the same passion our pets possess.

Now go scratch a belly or two.

The art of cow cooperation.

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I had the pleasure on this fine fall day of accompanying pops, just like old times, in bringing the cows home in fall roundup fashion.

My pops loves cows. He is first a horseman, but second a sort of cow whisperer. I am not kidding. It is, in its own way, extraordinary. His method for punchin’ cattle is not necessarily the bullwhips and whooping and hollering old western type of scenario most think of when visualizing a cattle roundup.

No, there isn’t even much swearing involved (unless I’m along. Then there might be a few slung here and there, I’m not gonna lie…) Anyway, the art of chasing cows with my pops is actually, I might stretch as far to say, a sort of “zen” experience, with the motto being, “slow and steady…let the cows think they are in charge.”

And really, they are. In charge that is. The cows. Because they will always outnumber us, no matter the strategy, no matter the brains and brawn you and the cow horse that is under you posses.  Most of the time things generally go as planned, with the cows catching wind of the horse at their backs and filing, nose to rump, on the trail to the gate. Just like pops had visualized. But then there are the days when the cows see that same gate open to greener pastures, and then choose, very casually, very snarky, to simply not enter and, you know, run as fast as their creaky legs can carry them to the nearest, most snarly, most thistle ridden brush there is on the entire place.

Yeah, I can see ya girl.

Then laugh and whisper to each other as pops and I discuss the idiotic fact that we own a pug, two labs and an old, crabby shepherd between the two of us and not one sense to possess a decent cow dog (whose job it is to correct these bovine attitudes). And then we proceed to dismount and walk into the critter and weed ridden brush to chase them out ourselves.

“Hya”  “Whoop.” “Come on girls.” “Yip. Yip. Yip.”

Arms waving, these are a few of the most choice phrases used by pops and me to encourage cow cooperation.

(I admit, I sometimes say “Dammit.” I know I shouldn’t, but I am passionate.)

Anyway, no matter the attitude, this type of situation is bound to occur on a cow-moving extravaganza, but it very rarely causes heart failure and hissy fits in the cowboy.  Because pops is a man who has been working cattle on this ranch his entire life, so he knows the drill.  He gets in their heads. He sees what a rebellious cow is thinking before she makes her move. He knows where all the gates are located in case the bovines get picky, he has been in all of the draws and has crossed all of the creek beds and has had to run damn quick to the tops of all of the clay hills. He’s got it down, so there really is no need to cuss, Jessie, geesh.

But for the last five years, pops has done this type of work, moving anywhere from 10 to 50 to 100 cows by himself on the back of his most savvy horse for years, being out here as the lone cowboy since his kids left home.

So he is really happy to have help, no matter how distracted that help may be by her camera and the lazy, spoiled pleasure horse she stupidly selected to take with her on the job.

Damnit.

Oops.

But it all worked out, like it always does on this fine fall day. After watching as a few surly strays decided to run down the steepest cliff with the most thorns and bogs in the entire pasture, with pops in the lead, saying “Well, if this is how they’re going to be, we’ll just follow them around the entire pasture until they find the gate,” we calmly rode in after them. And then I remembered why cowboys wear chaps as one of those thorns found a home in my shin. I might have said “shit” but I can’t remember.

And then, after a few “Yip yips” and Hya”’s, like well trained beasts, they came out of the brush…and proceeded to head for the other side of the pasture to a lovely spot where a deep creek winds up and back again through cliffs and washouts and lots and lots of thistles.

We followed.

We followed as the cows, with their rather large calves at their tails, waded in mud up to their knees to get away from us. And then proceed to swim across the deep creek and climb and claw and scramble out its steep, 90 degree bank. You know, to get away from us.

I shook my head, kicked my pokey mount along and scratched at the thorn in my leg. Pops laughed and commented on how gorgeous the view is out here. He said this is his favorite pasture. He pointed out the nicest calf.

What a beautiful day.

And it was, because just as I was sure these cattle were calling the Greyhound Bus to get the next ticket to NYC  (you know, to get away from us) we popped up over the hill and saw them file in line behind their girlfriends and their babies who were making their way through the open gate.

Just like pops had planned. Just like he asked them to.

And as they all gathered for a drink of water before their final destination, pops looked out over his spread, their shiny black coats glistening in the sunlight and said, “Look at those beautiful cows. What a herd. Take a picture of that Jess. Those are some great cows.”

So I did. I took a picture.

Then shifted my lens to snap a picture of a cowboy. You know, a real one.

“Happy Trails Y’all”…well we don’t really say “ya’ll” around here…let me try it again..

“Happy Trails You Guys!”

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Until we meet again.

She will be a mother.

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25

So my big little sister is having a baby. I say big sister, cause she’s older than me. I say little because she’s smaller. Much smaller. Petite. Lovely. Fragile. Like a porcelain doll.

You know, the opposite of me.

And we’re all laughing around here because this woman, this ballet dancer who wears nothing but dresses and high heels and red lipstick, this woman whose wrists are about as big around as spaghetti noodles and who is the epitome of feminine, (you know the opposite of me) is having a boy.

Well, “it” hasn’t popped out yet, so I guess anything can happen, but you know, they are pretty sure…

This is a big deal around here, not only because it’s the first grandkid and it will be funny to see how it all turns out, with the trucks and boogers and snakes and noise and dirt and squirt gun fights that come with boys, but it will also be the first boy to have entered the picture since husband first started driving his Thunderbird out to see me when we were 15.

Poor pops.

Anyway, I have been an aunt now for a while to three wonderful little girls, so I know something about what it means. Like candy when they want it and projects that involve glitter and pink and taking them swimming and saving them from their mean uncle who makes them finish all of their macaroni and clean up their crayons. I know a thing or two about giving the kids what they want.

But I have to say, I wasn’t prepared for this: watching my big little sister–the one who forced makeovers upon me, who made me her own personal baby doll (until I was the age of 4 and I started beating her up), who baby-sat me when our parents were out of town and let me have popcorn and Oreos for dinner–preparing to become a mother.

I heard the news eight months ago and smiled, but the reality of this life-changing situation doesn’t kick in until you see her each day, her small graceful frame that treads so softly on this earth slowly taken over by a life. Each day, she glows a little more, each day her belly more swollen and her back arched a bit further, dresses stretched a little more snugly across her torso, until the one sad day when her husband outlaws her high-heals and we all know what happens next…

But she has never looked more beautiful.

And my big little sister has always been beautiful. Seven years my senior, there was this adoration, this mystery, this absolute intrigue that she would exude to me, an Olive Oyle-esc adolescent, all arms, elbows, fuzzy hair and bad t-shirts who wanted nothing more than to wander the hills alone picking berries and singing at the top of my lungs.

I was a wild child. My sister was civilized. I was a bit unkempt. She was polished. I was a tomboy who belched a little too loud and a little too often. My sister was a lady who I was certain had never even farted. I was an earth tone. She was sultry red. I loved dogs. She loved cats. I was a Pippy Longstocking. My sister was Marilyn Monroe.

We were perfect opposites, and even though I ridiculed and tortured every boy that she would bring home and complain when she would take too long in the bathroom, my big little sister never scorned me for my differences. Yes, there was the occasional bribe to let her experiment on me with makeup and eighties hair and she did pay me money to let her shave my gorilla like legs, but I think mom may have been involved in that one (God bless her).

But, she never made fun of my Garth Brooks posters, the 101 Dalmatian sweatshirt I wore until the seventh grade or my earthy, over-the-top poetry. No, she never made me feel ridiculous, she just embraced her quirky sister and took advantage of the fact that I had no problems playing the male role in all of her dance routines that we, unfortunately, captured on video (thanks to the filming capabilities of our much younger sister) …

Yes, I may or may not have donned a fake mustache and suspenders in many a home movie.

And that’s what I’m saying here. Those days don’t really feel so far away do they? I mean, wasn’t it just yesterday that we were arguing about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher? Didn’t she just get after me about tormenting our little sister? Didn’t I just eat the tuna noodle salad she always made for us when she was babysitting? Didn’t she just leave the house for college? Didn’t I just eat a piece of her wedding cake?

I know at 27 I might be too young for this type of nostalgia, but I guess these big moments, you know, the ones that change everything, bring it out of me.

And as we prepare for the little bun’s arrival, and big little sister cooks him a bit longer, and pops is planning ways to steal him away and mom is thinking about how she’s going to dress him, and little sister is vying for babysitting duty, I am standing here, mouth agape, watching helplessly as the world flies by at a thousand miles an hour.

Because I don’t know if I will ever be a mother. I don’t know if I will ever get to worry about what color to paint the nursery or who to choose as Godparents,  how to dress the baby for his first Christmas, what sport he will play or if he can make it through his first sleepover. I don’t know these things.

And that’s ok.

But I do know one thing. I know my big sister, the one I used to beat up, the one who borrowed my 101 Dalmatian sweatshirt for “nerd day” at high school, the one who laughs at my stupid jokes and never gets a word in at the dinner table, is going to make all these decisions and more with the grace, style and compassion she has always possessed–just with a bit of spit-up on her dresses and boogers in her hair.

She will be a mother next month.

This I know.

She will be a mom to a little boy and I will bring the fake plastic snakes and squirt guns.

And I couldn’t be happier.

Thanks sister, for letting me splash your preggers self all over this page. And thanks for trusting me to capture this moment.

A cup of coffee and a change of weather.

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Ok, ok. I had my little hissy fit yesterday, you know, about summer leaving. I have always be proud of the fact that I accept change, welcome it with open arms, persuade it to occur really more often than I should…but I admit, I always have a hard time letting go of the sunshine season.

But let’s move on. Because (after the snow melted) it is truly spectacular out here. Maybe I have a super hero nose (it is rather large), but I think each season has its own distinct scent…I swear I can smell the fall coming in the musty, damp waft of leaves falling to the earth and turning to dirt. When I step outside today, even after a raging, uncharacteristic thunderstorm this early morning, I breathe in the crisp air and it is like this world that surrounds me has cleaned up and started over once again.  I suck in and feel the cool wind on my face and I am taken back to the first day of school, football games in town in my new jacket, chasing cattle to the reservation line and spitting plum pits at my little sister as she kicks her pony along.

What is it about us North Dakotans and our obsession with the weather? I ask this all the time. I walked into the local Cenex in town yesterday, the one that used to be a little diner called the “Chuckwagon” when I was growing up, and there sat my Great Uncle sipping coffee with his boys, talking about the crops and the cattle and kids these days and, of course, the weather.

Cue another flashback and ode to old times: because there he was, my Great Uncle, a few years older, with less mud on his boots from having moved into town years ago. He was sitting in the same building with the same group of men with whom, at well past 70, he has had coffee with nearly all his adult life.  And as he talks crops and takes a dip of Copenhagen and laughs, just as he always has, while offering me a pinch, around him the world is changing.

His once regular table where he would order the pie of the day is now a “Hot Stuff Pizza.” And instead of sitting down next to him for my own slice  (or chocolate ice cream with chocolate sprinkles,) like I would have done 20 years ago when I came to town with my gramma, I said a quick hello, gave them a smile and ordered my coffee on the run.

coffee

And outside the window in this once sleepy town the high-school kids are driving up and down main street, just like they always have, but this time with fast, flashy cars and cell phones, weaving in and out of the constant wave of truck traffic that has swept in with the second coming of oil to this area. An industry my uncle has watched boom and bust and boom again outside this very same window.

Across the street, he has seen his favorite hardware store change hands, close down, open up again and get a face-lift. He has enjoyed his last movie for a nickel and then waited years and years until he could see one again on Main Street…for $6.99.

He’s watched as the storeowners have wrapped gifts for his wife in dozens of different boutiques, in the same three buildings, and has purchased new-to-him pickups to take him to and from his farmstead thirty miles away. He has watched his children play sports and move out and have children of their own, who he has watched sing in the school concert, ride horses, get their first big buck, and their first job and move on and out and back to this once sleepy town.

And he takes that pickup to coffee every morning.

Old Truck

Yes, this is dramatic stuff, this cycle of life. Watching my uncle smile the same smile behind modern glasses in his remodeled and repurposed coffee joint, I think I am beginning to understand what it is about the weather…

…Imagine your lives here, in the middle of the mid-west, where one day it is sunny and the crops are thriving and the next day a hail storm wipes your heart and work out in a blink as you stand helplessly looking out your back screen door, powerless to change the outcome. Imagine standing in water up to your waist, carrying calves through a flash flood to dry ground, giving all of your energy and passion to save your animals. Or, after a severe spring storm, taking a newborn calf into your basement and warming it by the fire to save the fragile life. Imagine the most beautifully, unexpected spring day where you skip work to go fishing. Imagine losing someone you love on the road in the grip of an ice storm. Imagine waiting for the rain to stop to get your crop out before the snow flies…and the rain just turns to flurries…

And all the while, with each coming fall, your children are one year older, one year away from starting a new life…and with each drop of a leaf, gust of wind, and change of season, one more laugh line appears, one more year of work and sacrifice and special movie dates in town is gone.

So weather–this is how we talk about life here. This is how we talk about the hard stuff, the new stuff, the stuff that makes us crazy and lonesome and completely and utterly blissful. The stuff that puts the gray in our hair and the wedding dress on our daughters and the grandchildren in our arms. The stuff that makes us lose and gain and lose again…

Because nothing stays the same, nothing is for sure here, nothing is certain….nothing…

Except a good cup of coffee and a change of weather…

Summer Leaves

Winter Branches

Listen to Heroes Proved, a song I wrote about change in the rural lifestyle.

For as long as the oak tree has lived…

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It’s a special day at the ranch and as I shuffle around the house, picking up dishes, folding socks, sending out emails and generally getting things accomplished, I thought I would stop for a second to remember something.

Because on a day much like today, exactly four years ago, just down the road under a 100 year old oak tree, I married the man who belongs to the socks folded up on the couch. And we made plans to stay together as long as that oak tree has lived.

And this anniversary, I decided, is a little more special than the rest. I know four years is lame to most…I don’t even think there is a special traditional gift for it (like paper or plastic or mud even), but I like it. I like four years.

Because here we sit, all married and unsettled with our things and ideas and love scattered every which way around us, but we are right down the road.  We are breathing the air and scrubbing the dishes and mowing (or not mowing) the lawn right down the road from where I said “I guess so” when he proposed and we said, “Well, I guess we do!”  in our fancy clothes.  And we just went from there.

Little does anyone know the whirlwind that ensues after that blessed day, but here we are, right back where we started, in the first house we came home to as a married couple.  So I can’t help but think of that first year of marriage–when husband was working crazy shifts at the top of an oil derrick and I was on the road in my Chevy Lumina for weeks at a time, singing for my supper. Our paths crossed only to kiss one another goodbye and the two newest newlyweds lived out marital bliss hundreds of miles apart.

So I wanted to share this piece I wrote during that first year because I feel like it sums up the decision to grab our bags and make a new path. It reminds me of being so far away from him, off into my own adventure, and hearing his calm voice over the phone. I reminds me of missing him and closing my eyes and trying to recreate the man I knew—the laugh lines around his eyes, the ruffled hair, the scruffy face and faded t-shirt.

It reminds me of the separation that ebbed and flowed throughout the following couple years as our grand plans to make it to our destination continued to create physical space between us.

So yes, four is a celebration for us—a celebration of waking up to the same alarm clock and sharing a pot of coffee, of cooking meals in the same kitchen and enduring his vampire movies. It’s a celebration of blaming the empty toilet paper roll on each other and tripping over someone else’s shoes in the entry way. It’s knowing I have someone to clean out my hair ball from the drain with no complaints and a willing partner who will enthusiastically slide down a mud hill with me in the pitch black, pouring rain and then climb up again to retrieve my shoes.  It is a day of putting an extra slice of cheese on his sandwich and smiling because you have someone pretty dang great to make it for.

Today is a celebration of tangled, messy, loud, annoying, wonderful, blissful  togetherness as we stand proudly, hand in hand, back at the place where it all began ready and willing to hold on tight for 100 years under the branches of the solid oak–so we don’t have to miss one another so much anymore.

900 Miles

I can see him there.
Standing, phone pressed to his cheek,
laughing at how lonesome I’ve become on these three long weeks on the road.
I can see him.
Standing 900 miles away.

Tool belt slung low across his hip,
dust on his knees,
back arched, leaning away from his work
while assuring me it’s only five more days.

And I 
(who had this dream, this plan before it all began)
am wondering…
900 miles away…

with a man like this
how could I ever wish
to do anything but stay?

My love–better than a party hat.

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It’s my birthday month. Yes, around here I give myself an entire month. Whether or not those around me comply with daily cakes, party hats and steak dinners, I take this time as occasion to celebrate and attribute every guilty pleasure (new shoes, one more margarita, leaving the dishes for tomorrow, over sleeping,…you get the idea) to the fact that I was born sometime in this month, and I deserve it, dammit.

August is kinda a big deal really, because it is also my anniversary month and the time of year, historically, when I seem to make my big life decisions. You know, like saying “I do” and committing the rest of my life to someone. Moving across the state of North Dakota. Moving across the great big state of Montana. Deciding to get a dog. Deciding to be born. Deciding to get a tattoo. Oh, and deciding to purchase our first house. Which, in case you haven’t heard, after nearly two years of complete renovation, frustration, tears, a couple pats on the back, one million trips to the hardware store and lumberyard, a bazillion sawdust particles stuck up my nose and in my hair, three dozen stubbed toes, hammered fingers, scrapes, bonks and at least one incident of a head stuck in a ladder, we have finally finished!

Holy shit.

So on this second day of August, I am feeling a bit like the freaky quiet, calm and perfect temperature after a big storm. Like, now what? I mean, we are going to sell the thing so we can build a new one out at the ranch, so that’s what’s next really. Lot’s more work.  But, this has been quite the trip. And I recognize this feeling because it resembles what our life has been like together. See, we have been on the cycle of “work your ass off, suffer a bit, make some sacrifices, cry for a second and then suck it up until we’re done. Then move on. It will be worth it. Just move on.” Because in nearly four years of marriage we have moved all of our earthly possessions and changed our lives entirely five times. And we have done this all in an attempt to find ourselves in a life we have both dreamed of since we were children.

I might add here that I have known this man who I call mine since my first trek to the town school when I was about eleven years old. I walked into the big school, full of nerves and anxiety and I am sure all decked out in an animal applique t-shirt, ready to show off my sweet saxophone skills (or at least fake it, which it turns out I often did in my band days). I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but I went to elementary school in the country, about 15 miles from town. I had three kids in my class. I was the only dork who played a horn. I was a one woman band and I sucked. This town trip was a big, scary deal.

Anyway, it turns out the love of my life was a dork too. But one of those cool dorks who happened to play the saxophone, but also kicked butt at football, beat up the bully, could do a backflip and had sweet karate skills and no one asked questions. Yes, this wonder boy sat two seats away from me and was everything, including a bit of a pain in the ass in class if I remember correctly. I think I was scared of him actually and I am pretty sure he threw spitballs and got sent to the principal’s office the first time I ever met him.  Hey, I never said he was perfect.

But neither was I, and it turns out that worked out for us. The fact that I been happily hiding out on 3,000 acres of ranch land before I met him and the fact that I hadn’t learned the filtration process of self-expression to fit in and survive in his world seemed to make him notice me. He said he actually liked my crazy hair, weird shirts and yes, the fact that I trip a lot. In fact, the first time he called me (which, now that I think of it, was in August) I had just returned from an trip to the lake with my dad and sister, which resulted in a graceful jump down a small cliff that tore my ankle to shreds. I was crying and feeling sorry for myself because it surely meant my promising basketball career was over, but I took his call. I talked to the wonder boy, who even then in the first pure, private exchanges in what we didn’t know was a blooming, lifetime love, he calmed me. He made me feel put back together, even though my foot was throbbing and I was sure moments before, it was hanging on by a thread. He made me take a deep breath and smile. And that’s where it began.

With breathing.

I distinctly remember, when we were about 17 or 18, in one of his Sunday trips to the ranch to see me (and I think my Dad too, because they were pretty good friends even back then) we sat outside and talked about our futures, very innocently, like young people do. I talked about living back at the ranch, having my family here, writing, singing and carrying on like the same girl I was that day, on into womanhood, as a wife, as a mother, as a poet and animal lover. And he listened and told me about how he used to want to be a mountain man and trapper and live out in the wilderness of Alaska alone. But, he thought that all had changed now. And the next day he brought me a sketch of his dream house and said, if I’d let him, he’d build it for me out here someday.

So, I’m not sure how to define it here. This little journey we are on. I haven’t historically written much about the two of us in my music, in my poetry or my stories. I haven’t been able to tell anyone why, but I think it’s because I literally couldn’t find the words. Because my love didn’t fall down from the sky and hit me like a ton of bricks, or flutter in and out of my stomach like butterflies, or lift me up to highest highs only to drop me. My love, the love that I’m in, hasn’t been perfect. It’s been messy and full of plans that have been cancelled, nervous breakdowns, hysterical laughter followed by complete and utter anger and drained checking accounts. It has been full of long car rides, dog shit, the 24 hour flu, doctor’s appointments, burned dinners, empty underwear drawers because no one did the laundry, and, when we were younger, an unfortunate 45 minute jail stint. All of the good stuff.

No, my love hasn’t been easy, but it has been around. It has been with me since I understood how to feel it and has never left me in the middle of the night. My love has wrapped his arms around me when I felt like I lost everything, and he felt the same. My love fills my coffee cup on Sunday morning, fixes the things I break (and I break a lot of things) and never complained when I spent all of that time on the road. My love actually folds my underwear (in perfect squares) when we finally get around to the laundry. My love has been with me through 15 birthdays (and once, he even sewed me pants), high school graduation, college graduation, three albums, thousands of miles, dozens of roadblocks and five different jobs. And all of the time I have spent searching my soul, finding my strength and learning about who I am, he has known all along, has allowed me to embrace her, and reminded me to breathe.

So I am thinking maybe this story that began with a saxophone and right now is somewhere in the middle, or back at the beginning really, with a tiny house on the ranch,  could be a love story after all. Our story.  Because this August, as I find myself in another “start over” in the calm after the storm of tools and sawdust and boxes and our stuff scattered all around this place, I am beginning to realize that I am sitting in the middle of a backyard conversation between two young kids in love, dangling our feet over the side of the deck and making plans for a life. Today we are moving on, once again, into a world we have imagined and moved towards since that day in the yard. And it isn’t picture perfect, it isn’t quite there yet and it certainly isn’t going to be easy, but we have had a pretty great ride getting here. And after the dust has settled from the storm of our plans, I look up to realize that this wonder boy I have loved since I understood how to feel it has transformed, before my eyes, into the greatest man–a man who is making good on his promise to a wild haired girl from the sticks.

And in this month, and all of those to follow, my greatest  gift is him.

And that beats margaritas, a steak dinner and a party hat every day of the year.

Be wild, child.

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Cowgirl ShoeThere was an invasion at the ranch this weekend. An invasion of pink and glitter and ruffles and frills and dresses and jewels and ponytails and princess paraphernalia–all of the things little girls are made of. And all of those glamorous, glorious things were smuggled in inside of purple and pink purses and bags on the shoulders of an almost 7 year old and an almost 5 year old (well, when the next July comes she’ll be 5). And in 5.3 seconds it was like Barbie’s mansion exploded in my tiny house, with no sign of Ken anywhere…not even a loafer.

And it was absolutely lovely.

Yes, the nieces came to visit for what they called “a vacation away from their baby sister” while their parents were in Belize for a wedding. But they also came to play in the mud, pick wildflowers, yell at the dogs, swat at bugs, ride horses and become bonafide, tried and true cowgirls. And in preparation for this adventure filled weekend they made sure that they told everyone who crossed their paths where they were going in three weeks..two weeks..one day..today.

And I bought them cowboy hats. Pink ones. Because a girl’s got to look the part you know.

Cowgirl WalkAnd apparently looking just right is at the top of the almost-7-year-old and almost-5 year-old’s list. Because when I showed up at their doorstep, they were dressed to perfection in matching red and black cotton dresses with ruffles and well placed stripes and dots. Sporting brand new hair cuts, the little blondies were tapping their toes, clutching their princess backpacks nervously, and pacing back and forth, asking gramma “how many more minutes?” “when is she going to get here?”  And while it’s so nice to be wanted, it’s not so great when you are running about 20 minutes behind and an almost-7-year-old and almost-5-year-old-next-July have been told a specific time to expect the much anticipated cowgirl adventure to begin. I am not sure gramma appreciated my road construction excuse, but it was legit.

Anyway, I made it. And I promptly began to pack into the back of my car what I estimated to have been about 1,550 pounds of everything a couple of little girls could possibly need for three days. I mean we were loaded down. But, as I always say, you never know when you’re going to need a pink toy hamster on wheels.

In our 75 mile trek to the wilderness we covered about everything. Who’s your best friend? What have you been doing this Cowgirl Wildflowersummer? What is your favorite color? What do you want to be when you grow up? Can we get ice-cream?

So we stopped to get ice cream.

“What flavor would you like?  Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Strawberry”

“They don’t have strawberry honey.  Only chocolate or vanilla.”

“Banana”

“No banana. Chocolate or vanilla.”

“Just regular then.”

Which I took to mean vanilla and we were on our way to a melty, sugary, delicious, wonderful mess.

And back on the road to the ranch.

Cowgirl MoonWhen we arrived, the wonderment began. Not just for the two princesses, but for myself as well. In preparation for their visit, I tried hard to remember what it was like to be an almost-7 year-old and almost-5-year-old-next-July. What  did I do for fun? What did I like to eat? When did I go to bed? I remember much of my young childhood spent in jeans, t-shirts and boots running around in the hills, making tree forts and pots and vases out of the wet clay in the buttes. I remember enjoying projects, like rock painting, which could occupy me for hours. I remember wanting to spend as much time as possible outside.

I don’t remember owning as many dresses as these girls packed for a weekend. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think I have owned that many dresses in my lifetime.

Anyway, I employed what I knew about entertaining young ladies, as I was once one myself (although I possessed a little less ofCowgirl the lady part) and the rest the almost-7-year-old planned out for me.

First things first, we found their jeans.

And then we made supper. I gave them their hats. They squealed with delight. We marched down to the barn and saddled up their horses and hoisted their itty bitty bodies up on the backs of these gentle beasts.

They were nervous. They were thrilled. They chattered and asked questions and giggled and told stories and took instruction quite well…and then forget everything about 3 minutes later. They wanted to go faster. And farther. They wanted me to let go of the reins and let them try it themselves. They wanted to go up the hills and through the trees and ride off into the sunset a full blown cowgirl. Alone. Without my help.

A bit jolted, I was reminded of what it really was like to be almost 7 and almost 5 next July. It was about growing up…every second.

In all of the play that was squeezed in between riding the horses and picking flowers and running around outside, every conversation and fantasy scenario was centered around pretending they were older. Pretending they were the big girls and the world around them was filled with things they were allowed to do, allowed to control and experience and excel at. And they pulled me into that play land where I was the mom and they were the teenagers, or we were all ladies putting on makeup and getting ready for a party, or wives in the kitchen baking for our husbands. And it was lovely.

Cowgirl SunsetBut when I pulled the covers up to their tiny little chins at night, I wanted to whisper in their ears, “slow down little ones.” Slow down and breathe in the air around you and try hard to remember what the sky and the flowers and the bugs and the trees look like from down there. Take it easy and take note of how sweet the sugar tastes on your tongue right now, without any worries. I’ll worry for you. Let your hands dig in the dirt and mess up your clothes. Let your feet trudge up the hill and think about rolling down through the sweet smelling grass. Run as fast as you possibly can (and I know that it’s fast) and hear the wind whip through your ears. Sing at the top of your lungs the words to a song your can’t quite remember. Sneak up on a rabbit with every intention of making him your pet. Catch a frog, climb a tree, splash in a puddle. Be wild child. Be wild. And then tell me all about it.

Because as the big girl they are impatiently waiting to be, there are things I want to tell them, but I know these things can’t be Cowgirl Walksaid. Like, being a princess might not be all that Disney promised and sometimes you have to save yourself, and the prince (and then kick him to the curb). I want to tell them to be kind to their grandparents and hold on tight to their hands, because you never know when you will have to let go. I want them to know that there will be times you will curse your womanhood and scream at mother nature for being so cruel, but respect your body and understand that it can do great things–and push it to do so. I want them to know that they should rely on themselves first and make sure to learn to change a tire, fix a sink, check the oil and use a hammer, because it’s not a guarantee that someone capable will be around to do these things for you. I want to prepare them for the fact that they may not grow up to look like Barbie, and that’s a great thing. I want them to know that life will try hard to change you and mold you and break you down, but take a moment to look in the mirror and tell yourself you’re beautiful, without the sparkle, without the curlers, without the frills. And believe it. Wear your dresses when you want to. Wear your jeans when you have to.

Cowgirl sunsetI wanted to tell them all of these things, but I imagine they will get to learn them the hard way, just like every other woman. So as they drifted off to dream land, I chose to whisper a thank you to them instead. Thank you for reminding me to go faster and farther (with nervous squeals) off into the sunset and into a world that waits for three beautiful, muddy, thrilled and wild cowgirls who know a thing or two about how to really live.

Cowgirls
Sunset

I know what home is.

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There is something about the month of July that has always felt so much like home to me. It’s like it marches in with all of its blue sky and green grass and bugs and scents of clover and cow poop and touches me on the shoulder to wake me up to every glorious lake day, evening ride, campfire and hot, mid day hike I’ve ever had in every July of my life. This particular month so far has, to my surprise, has been all of those things and it is only half over.

I saw this summer at the ranch drifting lazily by as I contemplated what I am doing here. I saw myself sleeping in a little, cleaning up and making home cooked meals for the husband (ha, well, I have been known to be delusional). I have done this a little, but I have also done things a bit more exhilarating really…like answering my phone and saying yes –yes to every family member and friend that has been within arms reach for years, but whom I just couldn’t quite get to because of deadlines, work, or a commitment I didn’t want to commit to. And I have found that when used properly, “yes” can be the best word. Ever.

And so I have been out of commission in my own life for about 10 days, because I have willingly, and with gusto and open arms, planted myself in my best people’s lives across this great state. And all this being away from home, camped out in my grandparent’s lake cabin, in a hotel, on a couch in my cousin’s basement, in my sister’s bed in her apartment,  and in a tent at the edge of Lake Sakakawea, got me thinking a bit about how we define the word.

Home.

It’s intriguing to me particularly because we, my husband and I, have spent the last few years trying to find it. We have expended quite an amount of energy lugging our things around from apartment, to apartment, to apartment until we finally lost our minds enough to purchase a house of our own. And then we promptly extinguished all of our life savings deconstructing this new place so that it would indeed feel like ours, smell like ours, look like ours…be ours.

And for two years, I never felt so displaced. In all of the chaos and construction and saw dust and paint, I never unpacked a photo of us. I placed my things in the closets to get them out of the way and then never could really find anything again. I moved in and out of the project, from work to work to bed and back again, only a shell of a person really, in the shell of a house that someday, we hoped, would become our perfect home.

The funny thing is, all of the cussing, planning, crying, and hitting my fingers countless times with a hammer didn’t open our eyes of a perfect bricks and mortar home that was coming to life in front of us, but revealed a vision of a future that wasn’t contained in this house in this town, but a life that was waiting for us 60 miles north.

And as soon as we declared this project no longer our future, I became me again and I guess, started spreading myself around to whoever has missed me. And as it turns out, there have been plenty of people who wanted to catch up. So I put them all on my calendar.

I drove east to Minnesota to spend 4th of July with my grandparents on my mother’s side of the family, getting to know new babies and babies that have turned into teenagers over night. I put my feet in the lake where I spent summers of my youth, then let it close in over my head, just like when I was twelve. I swam. I ate watermelon. I toasted s’mores. I water-skied for crying out loud!

I hugged my grandparents and cooked french toast for thirty of my favorite people in a kitchen where we have all gathered to re-cap weddings, to announce pregnancies, to proudly tell a story of a renowned kindergarden performance or a winning goal. And we filled that home, that entire lake, with laughter of people who have known us all along and love us anyway.

And it felt pretty good, so I stayed away a bit longer.

I headed back west a bit to Fargo to spend some time with my cousins (the former members of the Kitten Kaboodle club and the ones who are responsible for my non-belief in the Easter Bunny). I marveled at a now grown woman, who once taught me the rodeo queen wave and lent me her sparkly cowboy shirts for talent shows, as she moved about her house, feeding her toddler cheerios and clapping her hands and rolling her head back as her princess four year old performed karate moves on her doll. I listened as that woman’s brother, and my forever best friend, spoke of his PhD program at the University of Miami, and felt so damn proud, followed by a pang of jealousy for his great tan and the laid back attitude he has accumulated along the way. I watched my youngest cousin use a pizza box to sled down the stairs just because we dared him to. I slapped the bass like a champ playing “Rock Star” on Play Station, I drank just a little too much, and talked just a little too loud and was just a little obnoxious. Just like old times

And my stomach hurt from the laughter, so I stayed away a bit longer.

Because my little sister needed me. She needed me, of all things, to hold her hand as she got a tattoo to commemorate her service trip to Guatemala. She needed me to make sure it looked just right, to calm her nerves, to tell her that it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, you should do what you want. And I watched as she braved the needle like a champ and cried a little when her alligator tears fell at the end of the session, because even though the pain was self inflicted, it really sucks to see your little sister cry. I got to know her new boyfriend. I gave him shit. I commented on her less than clean apartment and ate at the restaurant where she worked and tipped her big.  I slept next to her in her bed. Just like old times.

My heart filled up.

And then my best of friends, these three beautiful, successful and wonderfully quirky women,  called and said they wanted a vacation out west. So I drove back to the ranch to meet them there to try to give them their dream weekend. It was 100 degrees, but like a fresh breeze their car pulled into my driveway and love spilled out as they opened the doors with their arms spread wide, ready to embrace us, ready to embrace the evening. We grilled steaks and cut up veggies for a salad, we sat out on the lawn, we saddled up and took a ride over the hills. We built a campfire. We drank some beer. We went to the lake and felt the wind whip by as my husband drove the boat like a bullet across the big water. We listened to my dad sing. We all made our beds in this tiny house, snuggled in tight between these walls that embraced us like their friendly hugs embraced me, under this roof, under the big, starry sky.

And I felt damn loved.

But now that the quiet has settled in again, I caught myself thinking: “Now back to normal. Back to the real world”

What is that all about? What is normal? What is the real world? Wasn’t I just in it?

Never during those days of being away did I feel like I missed home. Never did I miss my bed or my couch or my shower or my desk. I missed my husband,  I missed the space, the horses,  I missed my dogs…

So here is what I think. And I don’t think I’m wrong.

Home isn’t carpeting and wall paper and a really great kitchen. Home is those living, breathing things surrounding you, talking to you, touching you and reminding you of things you forgot about yourself.  Home is who loves you and listens and offers advice on cooking and great wine.

Home is a long, hot summer, jumping in the lake, cheering your sister on as she works to get up on water skis. It’s taking your cousins to a movie and then driving home in the pouring Minnesota rain. It is pitching a tent with your best friends and then realizing you forgot the stakes. It is saying thank you when they cook you a really great hot dog and figure out how to make stakes out of sticks, and that works even better anyway. It is sitting next to your aunt as she holds her new grandchild and watching your grandparents beam with love as the next wave of company pulls in the yard. It is cringing with worry as your brother in law attempts to blow up the lake with $300 worth of fireworks. And it’s the whooping and screaming when he pulls the display off beautifully (and safely). It is singing around the campfire, catching tiny perch out of a pontoon full of family, posing for photos and taking turns at bat during a game of softball on the lawn.

It’s July and September and December and all of the months spent living.

I know this now.

I know what home is.

Old Homestead

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My dad emailed me these photos this morning after we visited last night about where the old homestead was located-just below the house where we are currently living. This house, my house, where my dad and his brother and sister grew up, was actually moved from its original location to its current location on a basement when my dad was 10 years old (so 45 years ago dad? Give or take a few). It was only then they had running water and a toilet in the house. He told me that he was so upset to have to move from an area with plenty of trees that he took it upon himself to work on landscaping, hauling trees in a bucket from nearby pastures (quite revealing of his character, even at that age). He’s proud to say that many of his transplant trees are thriving today.

The photos and his message:

“The first picture is your great grandpa Eddy standing in the door of his tarpaper shack below your house where I pointed out last night. He eventually built a house around that. It had a cool porch that a milk cow chased me into one day when when I went to get the milk cows. Kerry (sister) and I got chased home.  The cow’s name was appropriately “Dummy”. Kerry would remember this, as she outran me!

The second pic is Grandpa Pete, you can see the butte east of him so it was taken close to the lilac bushes.”