Category Archives: Musings

my philosophy I suppose

I don’t know if he’ll be a cowboy…

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I don’t know if my nephew, Little Man, will ever be a cowboy, but I know I am already making plans to buy him a pony.

I don’t know if he will ever sing and play guitar on stage under concert lights or around a campfire late at night, but I know I have some songs in me for him.

And I don’t know if he will ever long to climb mountains or race fast cars or jump out of airplanes or ride bucking bulls or find wild adventure in that little heart of his, but I know the world is waiting to see what he can do.

And I don’t know if I will ever have a child of my own, with my toes and ears and eyes, but I know right now his eyes see me and I will be watching him always.

No, I don’t know what the world has in store for those chubby cheeks, tiny feet and wide, drooly smile, but I am certain of some things:

I am certain his hands won’t always be this small, reaching out to tug my hair and discover his world—a world that won’t always be this new…

and I know I will always be there to hold them.

Oh, and I am sure he won’t always fall asleep in my arms,

but I know my arms will always be open.

And it is most definate that he won’t forever fit naked in my kitchen sink, trying to capture the water that streams out of the faucet…

and I know I will always be amazed at how much he’s grown.


The life we chose.

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24

Husband stopped the pickup yesterday as another spring snow storm came rolling over the horizon. He stopped along the road where the horses were working on an alfalfa bale that pops plopped down to keep them content through the last of this harsh weather.

We were on our way somewhere, to drop something off. To pick something up. But husband stopped in his tracks and while I sat waiting in the passenger seat watching the clouds turn a deep, menacing blue, without a word husband flung his door open and marched out in the wind and dropping temperatures.

He walked past the paint mare and the gelding we call Tucker, notorious for checking pockets for treats.

He breezed by the two sorrels and the buckskin my father rides.

He dodged the blind mule who never bothers to dodge a thing and slid his hand across the back of Stormy the trail horse without pause even for an ear scratch for the old brother. Because husband was on his way. He had his eye on something, the one living and breathing thing he has missed most during the gray days spent shoveling snow and plowing through the ice and slush and mist and repairing things in this old house while looking out the window to the snow covered buttes, waiting patiently for the meltdown…

And I sat there in the passenger seat, looking out the window at what appeared before me the most quiet and impulsive moment in the home stretch of the longest winter.

As husband reached his cold hand out to scratch the nose of his bay horse, to wrap his arms around his neck, to smell that sweet horse smell I found myself holding my breath.

I imagined them saying things like:

“Well hello. Yeah, well I’ve missed you buddy. Lookin’ good. You’ve wintered well.

We’ll get out there soon, friend. Just waiting on the thaw.

We’ll be out there soon.

Just waiting on the sun.”

It wasn’t a long moment, but after I released my breath and watched the wind blow through the bay’s mane and husband’s scruffy hair rustle as he pulled down his hat and headed back to the road and to life’s schedule, I felt like I should turn away.

It was like watching old friends reunite after months apart. Friends who have grown up together and trusted one another with plans and secrets and sadness and the most happiness and respect a body can offer, but there wasn’t time to grab a drink or take a walk or do what both of them wanted to do so badly and that was catch up.

Go back to the old days when the grass was green.

The meet-up on Saturday that occurred along the pink road that winds down through the coulees and up to the deep blue horizon was one my favorite moments since I have moved back here, very nearing a year ago now. Because it has been a rough winter. There has been a hard frost, some deep snow, days without power, things that need to be fixed and storms that have kept us from grocery stores and big events and far away friends. And I have been reminded of what we have given up to live out here surrounded by dirt roads without the conveniences of sidewalks, gas stations, fancy restaurants, gym memberships, dozens of latte flavors, late night shopping runs and constant plows and garbage service.

Oh, yes, I have missed those things at times when the winter nights came early and stretched on into the mornings. I have felt far away from my friends and isolated when the snow covered my windows and the morning called for shoveling and more snow and another day at home.

But as I watched that man, the one I have known since I was just a little girl, the one who walked with me down the halls of high school and somewhere along the line became my husband and unpacked all of my things and my heart on to this landscape, I didn’t wonder if we did the right thing. I didn’t see a man overwhelmed with the burdens of the weather and isolation. I didn’t see resentment or loneliness or a husband charged with making sacrifices for a wife he loves because this is what she wanted.

I have worried about this.

We have talked about this.

But no. As he stepped out of that vehicle on his own terms I saw hope and ambition and love and admiration, a little bit of crazy and all of the reasons that brought me back home.

I saw him in a quiet moment where he was his best self. He was the man he had envisioned.

And his heart was unpacked too.

Yes, when we live up here we give up some things. We let loose some perfection, deal with the messes, brush off the mud that enters your home on your boots, fix things that break with more broken things and lean in against the winter with the promise of spring.

These are the tests you must pass to survive.

So on Sunday the clouds rolled in and there was more to repair, more things to fix as the sky spit and looked like it would make good on the promise of more snow, a spring delay…

But on Saturday husband opened the door and reached out his hand to the life I chose. The life he chose. The life we have out here together.

And the clouds rolled on past as the storm blew over, the day’s repairs were accomplished and the sun shines today.

I married the right man.

The grass is green under that white and brown.

Things will break and be fixed again.

We’re in the right place.


The joke’s on me…all…year…long…

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7

There are a few things about myself that I would like you to confess to you all on this 1st day of April.

Let’s just cut to the chase…

1. I cannot tell a lie.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not Abe Lincoln or anything and it’s not for lack of trying. But when I attempt to stretch or distort or completely morph the truth, things happen to my body. Physical things. I convulse. I sweat. I tear up. My face turns red. I laugh nervously and then I cry. I cry. And then I might hit you. Or hit myself. Hard.

And then I tell the truth…the truth followed by a drawn out explanation about why I attempted the lie in the first place, trying to convince you that there is a good reason and then attempt to make up for it by offering the inflicted person, the lied upon, my last paycheck or my first born child.

And then I go home to cry some more and wallow in the guilt.

I lied to myself about this outfit...the results were epic...

It’s not funny. Not funny at all.

Which brings me to number two.

2. I cannot tell a joke.

Surprising, I know...

If you were dangling me by my big toe from a bridge over a river full of hungry, ravenous, man-eating alligators and all you were asking of me in order to save myself from an untimely and most certainly brutal and bloody death was to tell a slightly humorous joke, punch line last, I simply could not do it.

I panic.

The punch line is the first thing out of my mouth and I am an alligator appetizer.

And then I am dead.

Oh, but if you are the jokester, I will tell ya I am hanging on to your every word–because…

3. I am gullible.

Yep, as gullible as they come. I mean I held on tight to the idea that indeed Santa Clause had to exist until I was close to twelve-years-old because I couldn’t imagine that someone would lie about something like that.

It MUST be true...

Anyway if you’re not convinced yet, I have another example:

I am the most dangerous person who could ever answer a phone call from a telemarketer having once been convinced that I actually did win a trip to Disney World in Florida, free and clear– all I had to do was provide my credit card information, social security number, father’s middle name, my last seventeen addresses, checking account number, the password to my email and the fingers off of my left hand.

Sure! Why not! I mean we’re talking a FREE trip! I never win ANYTHING!!!

Disney World here I come...

I was halfway down the list of requirements for redeeming my prize before husband, cooking dinner in the next room, got wind of what was occurring and appeared out of nowhere to fling the phone out of my hand and flush it down the toilet

I could go on and on here about all of the things the kind people in my life have talked me into during the last 27 years of my life…like actually convincing me that wearing this outfit in a style show, in public, while in the brutal depths of HIGH SCHOOL, was not only a good idea, but a fashionable one…

An actual bathing suit would have been less humiliating...

but I think I have embarrassed myself enough here with the Santa Clause thing so I will move on to number 4, the culmination of all of my problems in the first place…

4. I do not pay attention. I. Do. Not. Pay. Attention.

It’s a constant battle husband and I have every day. He is meticulous in a guy kind of way, tucks in his shirts, keeps his wallet organized and most importantly always knows exactly where he last set something down.

Until I move it.

And don’t remember moving it. Or ever seeing it in the first place, let alone recalling that I put it in the freezer on my way to get the frozen peas.

That’s right, I am the woman who wakes up in the morning and pours coffee in her cereal bowl, has left the house (on more than one occasion) wearing two different shoes, has driven off from the gas pump dragging the hose with me for several miles down the road and constantly forgets to pull up my zipper. Constantly.

I could blame it on my early introduction to alcohol, but I don't want to make excuses...

Yes these confessions might be news to those of you who have never met me in person. But for anyone who has had me as a dinner guest, a relative, a friend for life or, you know, just happened to meet me in a hallway, you are already aware of this list. Because my discombobulations and shortcomings are written all over this willy nilly woman with the big velcro-like hair,  papers, receipts, three-day-old banana and small animals flying out of her purse on her way to something she’s late for…

With qualities like these you can imagine April Fools Day is not my favorite.

Not my favorite and down right dangerous.

Why this foolish holiday? Mother of Martha wwwhhhyyy?

Growing up my neighbors up the hill would relish in April Foolery. They would pull off simple, but genious pranks like putting salt in the sugar bowl, saran wrap on the toilet seat and coffee filters in the pancakes. They would concoct a story so believable that it convinced neighbors for miles that 1,000 blood thirsty wild pigs got loose in the badlands and the government was offering $500 a head.

Yes, their jokes and lies provide banter around the dinner table for years to come. April Fools Day geniuses is what they are.

But can you imagine what would happen if I attempted these types of shenanigans?

What 'cho guys laughing at?

I can’t even think about the chaos that would ensue when I got up from my morning pee and forgot completely about the saran wrap I applied to the throne the night before.

I can just see the spit on the windshield after my first sip of salty-moring coffee while I wipe off my face, realizing I had just fallen victim to my own prank.

No, I don’t even attempt it. And for my own safety when the calendar reads April 1, I stay indoors, shut off the phones and take to the ritual of carefully examining everything I put into my mouth.

But it doesn’t even matter–I have already been duped. Yes, on this deliciously sunny, snow melty, blue sky, muddy, glorious day it turns out, despite my best attempts, I can’t avoid the biggest prankster of all…

The weather man…

Ohh, when the clock strikes midnight and this Godforsaken day is over, I’m comin’ for ya Cliff.

I’m comin’ for ya.

Stay safe out there pranksters. And watch out for that saran wrap…

Icicle Bruise

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9

Ah, we have entered the Ice Age around here. Sweet Martha this doesn’t look like spring.

And while everyone in my immediate family was out galavanting around the countryside this weekend, I stayed here in my cozy brown house.

And moved as little as possible.

I was protesting.

Because it’s damn dangerous out there! I mean look at that!?

Those daggers just dangling there, waiting to impale anyone who dares cross under their path to exit the house, enter the house or move to the outdoors or indoors in any way.

It could happen.

You could be out there in what is supposed to be the fresh warm spring air,  just innocently filling up the bird feeder for the blue jays to ensure they are content while you’re off frolicking in the warm Arizona sun, unaware that the sword of ice dangling above your head is preparing to succumb to gravity and detach, plummeting and crashing to earth…but not before it smacks you in the forehead on the way down there, leaving a nice purple bruise that I heard is quite a fashionable look in Phoenix.

That may or may not have happened to someone I’m related to that was heading south for the weekend, leaving his beloved daughter dearest to tend to the snow drifts and to take care of the dangerous task of filling the bird feeder while he’s gone.

It's like the Apocalypse I tell ya...

Icicle Bruise.

If they’ve never heard the term in Arizona, I think they are well aware of it by now.

And so you can’t blame me for avoiding the outdoors this weekend, even though it’s not like me at all. I mean, the sky is literally falling…and I seemed to have misplaced my helmet.

So what did I do this weekend all alone on the ranch? You might ask.

You might.

And if you did I would be honest and tell you that I did whatever I wanted. And what I wanted to do, considering the fragile state of the sky, was wake up, rub my eye crusties, look out the window, whine, make coffee and settle in under my fluffy blankets to watch a movie marathon with the one eyed pug.

But here’s the thing about movies, especially those I chose to enter my home this weekend: if the sky and I weren’t in a delicate state before viewing films like “The Blind Side,” “Life as a House” and “Steel Magnolias” we sure as shit were planning our next rainstorm after the credits rolled.

Sigh.

I mean, I know it all turned out in the end, but my emotions don’t bounce back that easily…I’m just saying…

So to counterbalance and keep me from dialing the adoption agencies to start the paperwork needed to save all the homeless children in the world, I decided to switch over to movies in a category I like to refer to as the “RoCo.”

Romantic. Comedy.

Fully prepared to be entertained with belly laughs and eye candy, I pressed play on “How Do You Know?” starring the tiny, blonde girl next door bombshell Reese Witherspoon and the witty and charmingly handsome-in-a-nerdy-cute-kind-of-way Paul Rudd…oh and Owen Wilson. Yeah, he was in there too.  I don’t want to give anything away here, but there is a love triangle. And it’s adorable.

And with the final kiss at the end, you know, that kiss, I suddenly felt the need to make an appointment to get my hair cut and colored, nails done, a full body wax and then launch into the sit-up routine I have been avoiding my entire life.

Sigh.

I finished the last roll of Oreos and moved on to “The Switch.” I will just cut the chase here and say it sure as hell didn’t help me avoid my save the children impulse…

Yes, it was a full out emotional roller-coaster from the comfort of my couch. And I’ll tell ya, the all-day movie marathon isn’t as safe a choice as some would make it out to be.

I decided I needed the company of actual people, you know, ones that don’t pay personal trainers and eat only lettus and exist in Hollywood…the ones that may have a zit or two to match mine. So I called little sister and hit the road to meet up with her to dance it off at the PDQ.

A great band was playing. I got a free shirt.

I wore it.

I danced my ass off…

and lost the shirt I came with.

I went home to the one-eyed pug.

I went to bed.

I woke up, did the eye crusties, window look, whine and coffee thing and transferred the lingering emotions from my blockbuster binge and the embarrassment from the night before into my some songwriting.

I wrote and wrote and wrote and sang and ate tortilla chips and smoothies and wrote and sang…and poured some Fruity Pebbles…

And then went on a scavenger hunt for my helmet because it was time to feed pops’ birds…

Because apparently the sky wasn’t over the movie marathon either…

…and still has issues today.

Thank goodness husband came home to save me from myself, icicle bruises and the dreary, pointy, weary, depressed sky.

I think we just need to stick to comedy from now on, the sky and me.

Comedy or nothing.

We’re just too fragile….

Play like a man.

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20

Husband folds my underwear in perfectly neat little squares. Husband cooks me bacon on Sunday morning while I wait impatiently in the adjoining room because he knows that I cannot be trusted alone with bacon. Husband ventures out in the cold spring air to push the snow away from the house.

Husband makes me drink Theraflu when I have a cold, even though it makes me gag and whine the entire duration of the illness. Husband unclogs my hair-ball from the shower drain and has never said a word about it really.

Husband reminds me to put the lid on the toilet when I’m done because he is genuinely concerned there is a possibility I will drop something, like my toothbrush or a bath towel in there…

Husband’s most usually right.

Husband doesn’t get mad when I forget to check the pockets of his jeans before I send them through the washer and dryer…along with his pocketknife, dollar bills, lists, pens, wrenches and other super important work things I didn’t notice.

Husband thinks I look pathetic in the morning with my head buried under the pillows and no matter how much I tell him he NEEDS to wake me up when he leaves for work at 5:30 am he claims he just can’t do it. I’m too pathetic and he’s too sweet so he puts his socks on in the dark and leaves me a cup of coffee in the pot for when I actually do rise (not quite shining).

Husband fixes drippy faucets…by ripping the entire shower apart and putting it back together with beautiful new tile.

Husband lets the cats sit on the desk to look out the window at the birds…breaking every rule he has about cats.

Husband folds my underwear in neat little squares…did I mention this already?

Did I mention husband needs a break?

Yes. Husband needs a break.

Not just any break. A real break. A break complete with a big pickup hitched up to a horse trailer pulling big boy toys off into the wild blue yonder as the speakers howl out Johnny Cash and his little brother hits the gas and hands him a big bag of Cheetos and a candy bar and promises him a glass or two of whiskey on the rocks when they get to that yonder he’s been talking about for weeks.

And so it was yesterday evening as I pulled into the drive and witnessed the Redneck Extravaganza that appeared as two grown men morphed into excited and giddy young boys pushing and craning and squeezing two fancy snowmobiles into our horsetrailer. A horsetrailer  that has hauled livestock and horses and home renovation supplies and all of our earthly possessions all over the country and still, no matter what, continues to boast a nice, unmovable layer of poop residue on the floor.

I will tell you, I had to take photos, because this piece of ranch equipment wasn’t meant to haul anything this shiny. Nothing this expensive.

I also had to take photos in case this was the last time I ever saw husband again–with so many reasons for him to never return home and so many ways he could be lethally injured riding this machine as fast as it can go up and down mountains without a voice of reason nearby to tell him to watch out for: avalanches, huge hidden rocks, man-eating raptors, grizzly bears, fences that could decapitate him, mountain caves covered in snow that could swallow him up, poisonous berries, aliens, and most dangerous of all, himself.

No. There would be nobody there to save him from the reckless teenager I know exists in that man-sized body of his–the one who used to drive 115 miles per hour down country roads in his Thunderbird during a blizzard to see a girl he might have liked a little, the kid who has been known to climb to the top of the highest cliff and do a backflip on his way down to the un-navigated water below, the boy who used to ride all over the badlands on the back of his three-wheeler, jumping cliffs and climbing buttes and more than occasionally landing on, crushing and dislocating countless bones along the way, the kid who…oh forget it…I can’t talk about this anymore…I need to take a break to check our insurance policy…

O.K. Anyway, husband has been working really hard these last few months. And although it doesn’t look like it at the ranch, Western North Dakota is a happening place right now due to the booming oil industry and husband works right in the thick of it. And he’s really good at his job.

So good and dedicated that lately he’s been working nearly 12 hour days only to come home to a wife who has an issue with a drippy faucet, burned the Hamburger Helper to his favorite pan, forgot that we don’t have a garbage disposal and left the lights on in his pickup, draining the battery while galavanting around the ranch…again.

Sssooorrryyyaaa...

Yes, with a wife like this it’s a good thing God granted men the unfaltering ability to play. Like really play. Have you ever noticed this about the species? When men get together they DO things. They hunt. They fish. They play basketball, cards or football. They ride things like 4-wheelers, motorcycles, snowmobiles or boats around. They ski or snowboard or grab a hockey puck and stick and practice their slap-shot. And if they can’t do these things in real life, they do it in the form of video games, watch other guys do it on TV or talk about all the times they have done the above activities together…and who got hurt along the way.

I admire this about men. I admire the play. I admire how they can just let it all go, the faucet, the clogged drain, the one-eyed pug that cost him a fortune, and go to a place to let loose in friendship and brotherhood and good old fashioned fun. And they don’t make excuses. They don’t justify. They don’t prioritize or time themselves or feel guilty about it. They just play.

So anyway, this weekend it’s just me, the cats, the lab and the one-eyed pug in a cone holding down the fort while husband is out inventing new ways to hurt himself and mom and pops are headed to visit my grandparents in Arizona.

The definition of pathetic...

And I don’t mind, as long as there are no more blizzards, power outages, porcupine encounters, coyote incidents or alien invasions while the troops are gone everything will be fine.

Anyway, I have a list a mile long that I have been meaning to get to that requires me to get up at the crack of dawn to check pockets, fold my underwear, unclog the sink, take out the garbage,  caulk the newly tiled shower, close the lid on the toilet seat and spend some time with bacon…

Bacon+Me=lack of self control, guilty, fat-laden, salty, happiness

But when I’m finished not doing all of the above (except, of course, the bacon part…) I think I might take husband’s lead and start on the other list–you know, the one that requires me to paint my toenails, watch movies that feature a man named Matthew McConaughey, play my guitar and sing really loud, venture into town to listen to other people do the same thing while kicking back a cocktail, eat cereal and popcorn for supper, catch up on all of my Glamour and People magazines, practice my sweet dance moves without scrutiny from onlookers and critics, eat cereal and popcorn for lunch, watch movies that feature a woman named Julia Roberts, tie up the phone-line chatting up my girlfriends, let the pug and the cats sleep in my bed, avoid the laundry at all costs…

…and not feel the least big guilty about it.

I hope you will all make like a man and do the same…

or at least your version of it…

…and for the love of Martha, watch out for avalanches.

Mother Nature. It’s a woman thing…

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24

Good morning from the land of indecision. And by that I am referring to the weather.

And me. But we’ll get to that later.

Ok, so remember when we talked about that spring thing and the melting and the running water and the removal of the wool caps and scarves and my fantasy about wearing cut-off pants and running through the sprinkler.

Well, that’s all shot to shit now and after the last few days, I am firmly convinced that nature is a woman.

A moody one.

Out my kitchen window yesterday...you're supposed to be able to see the red barn...I can't.

Because just as she gets nice and comfortable with a bit of sunshine and blue skies, raising all of our hopes up of sun kissed skin and BBQs, she laughs like an evil queen in a Disney movie and then throws some more snow and wind and fog and freezing ice in our faces…only to come back and apologize with something like a rainbow or 70 degree weather.

Ah well, like a rocky relationship, we’re all used to it by now.

And for those you who think an all out school cancelled, no travel advised, wind whipping snow pellets in your eyeballs, no Schwanns man for the rest of your life and zero visibility day is unheard of after spring has been declared,  I’ll tell you, you haven’t met Mother Nature in North Dakota. In March.

No birds today...

Yes, Mother Nature can be a completely unpredictable, annoyingly indecisive bitch sometimes.

And I can relate, because I have had those kind of days. I am a woman too and lately I have been driving myself crazy with a little project I like to refer to as “Mission: the rest of our lives” and I have displayed all of the above qualities and more during this process. So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Mother Nature for mirroring the conflicted mood I’ve been in by slamming sleet and snow against our windows and blowing a drift across the door and blocking husband and I inside this little house together in the middle of a bathroom remodeling project, forcing us to make some damn decisions already.

Because it worked.

See, after we sold our house in Dickinson at the end of December, husband and I have been discussing and researching and making decisions and canceling plans and going through books and websites and talking out where exactly on the ranch we are going to live for the rest of our lives.

As you know, I have lived here, in the house my grandfather built, since June. And since I moved my shoes and bed and table and books and music and body between these walls almost a year ago, slowly I have found myself coming back into my own again. I have rediscovered this landscape where I grew up and began to throw myself into the things I loved to do as a kid, because I couldn’t help it, I felt 10 again. I picked wildflowers, rode my horses, explored the old barn, walked the coulees, played in the rain and rescued lost kittens.

And I wrote about it, worked through it and relaxed a bit into myself again.

But during this time I have always had it in my head that my existence in this spot, with the window that looks out to the barn and the other that faces the corrals, would be temporary. Our plan was to build a house over the hill and leave this house the way it is, with some updates and an open door to guests.

That was our plan, so we moved forward–kind of. We talked to builders and picked up pamphlets and searched the internet for custom homes and asked questions and never really did set it up and move on with it already.

What I was most excited about was fixing up this house. Putting in some new floors, siding, deck, appliances–the works. I wanted to see it glisten and shine again. But really, what about our house already? What was wrong with us? What was the hold-up on making our forever home?

Forever.

Home.

Forever.

Well, on Sunday we brought home some tiles to fix up the shower in the farm house. Tiling. Not my favorite by the way. And as we were taking a trip out to the shop to get the tools, on the way back husband stopped short of the door and put his hands on his hips. He leaned back. He inspected. He moved around the house making noises like “hmmm…” and “wellll…” and “huh.”

I watched him for a bit, my arms full of tools. Then I asked the inevitable “What?” “What are you doing? We have a mission here.”

He turned to look at me through the foggy air and mist that settled in on the barnyard and over the square brown house before the storm hit and out of husband’s mouth came words that, simply said, seemed to clear that fog and mist and hovering clouds that had existed in my mind as indecision…

“We could stay here. We could stay in this spot. We could make it work.”

I sat down on the deck that is in desperate need of repair and put my head in my hands.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” I whimpered.

“Yes,” I wailed.

“Yes,” I sobbed.

“Yes. I want to stay here.”

And so we took the time that was reserved for tiling that Sunday afternoon and talked it over, made some drawings and gave ourselves some options on how it could work.

And I was happy.

And still am.

And think I always will be here.

At home.

Even with the storm wailing outside and painting this house and barn white.

Even while other people were hunkering down against the storm yesterday and watching bad movies we were inside tiling and tiling and making plans for more work like this.

Even when I can’t get my car out of the snowbank.

And since many of you are snowed in today I think this might be a good time to share with you a little extra reading: My winning essay and answer to the question “Who Inspires You” for the “Inspired Woman” magazine out of Bismarck, ND.

Read it and then tell me why I didn’t listen to myself and figure this whole forever-home thing out months ago when I placed the last period at the end of the story.

It must be a woman thing.

You can see the entire article in the magazine, complete with photos, here: Inspired Woman Magazine

P.S. The decision to stay in the this location doesn’t mean we won’t have space for guests. It just means we will have different space available…

And so a girl changes her mind and I am confident it will work out for the best.

To the kids

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19

It’s 11 pm on Tuesday and tomorrow I am traveling 65 miles to teach a class at an event for youth called  Marketplace for Kids held in a neighboring college town.

Marketplace for Kids is something I may or may not have attended in my youth as an ambitious 8 or 9 or 10 year old– an educational program offered to students from around the state to help encourage young entrepreneurs and give them a chance to present and explain their projects–which are no doubt brilliant and creative and inspiring.

I will be a part of their opening ceremony. I will be singing a song. I will be teaching five, twenty-five minute classes about how I got from ranch kid, to singer/songwriter, to college student, to career woman and, then back to the ranch–this time as a grown woman.

I will be up all night.

Yes, I have known about this gig since January, but three months later and nine hours until the event itself, I still have no idea why they want me there. I spent all day today going over my class notes, trying to find the best way to explain myself.  Trying to figure out how to communicate my goals and ambitions and minor successes to a room full of 7 or 8 0r 9 or 10 year olds.

Trying to figure out really, how I got here.

I don’t know if I’m the right woman for the job…I just don’t know if I have what it takes. The thing that gives me hope is my one redeeming quality: I can still remember, vaguely, what it was like to be their age–so full of creativity and life and love for the things around me.

I can still remember, vaguely…

And you know, since I have been doing all this thinking, here’s what I think–I think that’s what has saved me and got me here today, doing something I love in a place I love the most in the world.

So now it’s 11:10 pm and having been at this quest, this journey about what to say to a crowd of children who are no doubt smarter than I am, unofficially since I was asked to do the gig in January and officially since 8 am this morning. And I think I might have finally got it.

I’m still nervous. But I think I got it. Or something that resembles it.

I guess I’ll find out tomorrow…

To the kids

Hello! I was so excited to talk to you all today. I’ve been thinking about what to say to you for months. I worry about things like this.  It’s such a fun opportunity to talk to you about what I’ve learned in my 27 short years….I didn’t want to mess it up!

I wanted to tell you a little about myself, about how I have been playing guitar and writing poetry and music about the ranch I grew up on since I was 12 years old and how I recorded a couple CDs and how I traveled the country for years singing songs, like the one I just sang for you today.


I wanted to tell you about how, after all of the miles I traveled and all of the songs I sang along the way, I have moved back to the ranch and am now working on opening it up to guests so they can come and visit, take photos, hike and bike and ride horses and learn about ranching and cattle.

I wanted to tell you all about how I got to where I am and how, with enough drive and ambition, you can grow up to be anything you want to be…


But the thing is, as I look out at you I remember myself at your age. And I remember that you already know that. Someone has already told you this a time or two haven’t they?

Because when I was your age I knew it. I knew what I loved—horses and music and wildflowers and lizards and my friends and family and pet dogs—I knew I loved all of the space around me and the adventure and freedom of growing up and living in the country.  I knew who I was.

Jessie Veeder. Brown Hair. Brown Eyes. Tomboy. Nature Lover. Animal Lover. Singer. Cowgirl.


And I look at you out here and I see blond hair and black hair and boys and girls, big sisters, little brothers, inventors and authors and movie stars and firefighters and business owners. You all have your interests and your hobbies and your talents. They are being developed right in front of my eyes. I can see it happening as I speak.

So instead of telling you that you can be anything you want to be, what I really want to tell you is to just, please…

Be You.


Do the things you love. Explore and make friends and travel and learn about what makes you happy and what you do best. And go out and do it. Every day.

And as you grow up you will find it will be hard sometimes, and sometimes you will be pulled in unexpected directions, sometimes you will be lonely and sometimes you will fail…


But when that happens, remember yourself here, at 7 or 10 or 13 years old. It will be easy to do if you stay true to yourself, the one who is sitting in these chairs with all of your plans and talents and goals and spirit.…

Remember you.

Be You. The very best version.

And I promise you will succeed.

Well, it should go something like this, depending on my level of panic or the fact that I realize when I get to the event that this isn’t what they had in mind when they called me at all.

I’ll let you know how it goes…and if they Slushie me Glee Style.

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.

The colors of the season…

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12

Not a palm tree...

My mom and pops went to Jamaica for a week.

While they were basking in the rays of 80+ degree weather, jumping from cliffs, swimming with the fishies and enjoying one or two cocktails while floating in a pool, husband and I had everything under control back here at the ranch.

Well everything except the severe winter weather advisory that led to a 24 hour power outage which resulted in the mis-fire of mom and pops’ furnace when the electricity was finally restored.  And it just so happens that husband’s favorite pastime is fixing things (he has to do it a lot considering the walking disaster he married) but after one to two hours standing in front of the mysterious mechanism, scratching his head, tinkering with wires and searching for that elusive reset button while standing inside a house that was reaching thirty degrees, even Mr.Fixit husband and his electrician father on the other end of the phone line were utterly defeated by the thing.

Not ocean waves

So husband moved on to the next conundrum: removing porcupine quills from the snout of their dog left in our care. And I went for the space heaters and the phone to call the furnace guy.

And then we sat in their hot tub and drank their wine and called them names behind their backs.

But all’s well that ends well. Especially when you find that hidden furnace button, save the dog and throw away the empty wine bottles in time for your parents to come home with tanned skin, beaded hair and a new accent.

Ya Mon

And so we went over to their house on Monday evening to eat steak dinner and hear their stories and look at their pictures and see that video of the cliff jump.

And now I’m colder than ever.

Remember when it looked like this around here?

Remember when these things grew out of the ground, looking all colorful and happy and bright?

Remember when I could open the windows and let the breeze blow through the house while I milled around in my short shorts and tank top?

Remember when I slid down the clay butte in my pajamas in the middle of the night and scraped up my ass and my hands and my feet, but at least I didn’t get frost bite?

The evidence

The evidence...

Waaaahhhhh…hurry up summer!

Don’t get me wrong, no matter the season I am so inspired by this land around me. It changes every day and comes up with different ways to awe me, but this last week I have been dreaming in color. The colors that I haven’t seen for a while.

Green.

Pink.

Orange.

Yellow.

Yellow Flowers

Purple.

So after sitting at my desk all day yesterday staring at the computer screen trying to complete a project while banging my head against the wall learning a new program, my eyes were squinty, my throat was dry, my hair was standing on end and I smelled like bad attitude.

Growl...

So I bundled up and went outside to take some photos. Because I have found photography has become my new therapy– it’s teaching me to look for the beauty and interest in the small, ordinary big-picture things.

I pulled on my long underwear, strapped on the old snow shoes, tied on the neckerchief and stepped outside into my wild backyard.

Maybe I’ll see those elk in the fields pops was talking about.

Maybe I’ll see a deer or a rabbit or coyote or, if I walk far enough, maybe I can catch a glimpse of those bison on the hill.

Maybe I’ll walk up to the horses. Maybe I’ll sit and listen to the wind, maybe I’ll…

…freeze to death.

Shit, it was cold.

I made it about a quarter of a mile before I really realized it and then, once decided, couldn’t run for cover soon enough. But I was determined to be inspired.

Determined.

So I started the pickup and loaded my fluffy self up in there. I was going to take a drive. I was going to find me some wildlife, some sparkle, some shine, something to lift my spirits.

I drove down the back road, radio off, peering from side to side, slowing at the corners, looking in all of the washouts and coulees where I know the deer lay, where the birds might be, where the elk might saunter through, hoping for a jack-rabbit, a cow, a neighbor, anything to cross my path…

But it seemed that it was just me out here on the empty road, in the quiet cold air, in the cab of my pickup feeling, I’ll admit, kind of alone in this season that seems to be dragging us all to our breaking point…

So I turned around to head back home in the…

white…

gray…

brown…

But just as I was giving up and resigning to the season and the endless wait for spring– getting after myself for being one of those northerners who complains about the winter weather as if I wasn’t expecting it, I was put back in my place by one thing that makes me fall in love with my world over and over again…

the one thing that never lets me down…

And as the sun moved down over the horizon, it slowly gave to me all the colors I’ve been missing, all the sparkle and shine and inspiration this pasty northern girl needed at a time like this, saving me from myself once again.

And so it will be summer again. And this…

will finally get dressed already…

But until then, I’ve got the sun and the sky. And the sky’s got my back.

Oh, I know Jamaica has the sky too, but I just think it feels and looks better out here…

…you know, where the frozen ones don’t take it for granted.

 

The Red Guitar

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I love guitars. I love the way they look sitting in the corner of a house, laid out on the bed, placed carefully in their cases or on display in a music store.

I love how they feel in my hands.  The new ones shiny with promise of the music that is to come, the stories it might help you tell, and the places it could take you. The old guitars worn from years of picking, dinged up from bar bands and campfires and teaching a child to play.

And I love how they sound, each one a little unique, a little brighter, a little lower,  a little cheaper, a little more rich and full. I love how they transport me, no matter if I am behind the sound or sitting in front of it swaying to the rhythm it creates, to a place so full of heart and passion and loneliness and fulfillment and family and home and leaving and heartache. A place I’ve always had in me.

Because you know how everyone has a first memory? That moment you look back on where you were the youngest version of yourself you knew. Maybe it’s only a few moments in time, but it was so powerful that you hang onto it hard and forever, whether you want to or not.

That memory is a guitar to me…

…dancing in the basement of our old house while my dad played his red Guild and sang. I don’t remember the song, or maybe I do, it doesn’t matter. But I remember the brown shag carpet. I remember how he wore his hair a little long. I remember how his wide, leathery fingers eclipsed the strings at the neck of that guitar. I remember how he swayed back and forth and tapped his foot, just a little bit off of the rhythm of the song he was singing and picking—the same way he does to this day. And I remember wanting to play. Wanting him to let me pluck the strings on my own, wanting my hands to grow a little bigger so I could make the music come from that mysterious instrument. That beautiful, red guitar.

And the instrument, the guitar, still remains a mystery to me. Even though I have been playing in one form or another since I was twelve years old, it still perplexes me that six strings touched the right way can produce sounds that make you laugh and cry and tap your toes or sing words you didn’t even know you had in you out to the world. It’s amazing to me that the sounds that come out of the body made of wood and metal and shine can be so different depending on who is touching it, who is sitting behind the instrument.  I am in awe that a guitar can transform a campfire or a living room or a makeshift stage into a world where where love is lost and found, real cowboys still exist, babies fall asleep peacefully, summer always stays….

Yes, the guitar remains elusive to me even though every person in my family, as a sort of right of passage, owns their own version of the instrument and tucks it away in their basement or in their bedroom closet or props it up next to the piano or next to the living room couch. It is a necessity, whether or not you ever learn to play it, you need it there next to you in case you are ever so inclined—because the music is so unpredictable.


I have had in my possession a number of guitars in my short 27 years. All given to me by my dad based on his judgment on what would be the best fit for me. My first was a small guitar made for beginners that came in a box and wound up in my little sister’s room after I graduated to the next level: a cheap guitar with soft strings upon which I practiced strumming and singing “Amarillo by Morning” until my little fingers and voice were raw.

When I proved that I had an interest in the instrument that wasn’t going to waver anytime soon, I consulted with my dad and we agreed to trade my saxophone, the one I would pretend to play in band class, for a real guitar (because it was quite apparent that I lacked any Kenny G style skills and probably never would). And so I acquired the green Takamine and started writing songs, thinking maybe I could be a real musician behind this guitar. Maybe.

And I kept playing that Takamine in my bedroom. And then that guitar and I had our first real gig playing songs that I wrote and songs that I loved. Then we did it again and again until it was time to record them and time for a new guitar. Because I had outgrown the instrument in sound and purpose.

So another Takamine with a sunburst on its body took me on through high school and into my first year of university where I played in coffeehouses and bars around the small college town. And when the call came about traveling and working on another album I was set to go. I had my big girl guitar, it would work just fine.

I was excited and nervous and anxious about the whole thing….

Then one day after a few of my first on-the-road gigs, I came back home and my dad placed into my hands his Taylor, the guitar I had coveted and loved and snuck to the back room to play by the moonlight whenever I had a chance. He loved that guitar, and he placed it in my hands.

I took it with me.

And if there is ever anything I go back into a burning building for, it will be that guitar.

But if there is anything I love more than that Taylor it is that red Guild. And for a while I thought I would never see it again, you know, because a musician like my dad is known to trade guitars for amps and other guitars. And that red Guild was out of our lives for a while, during the time I was falling for the Taylor.

But damned if dad didn’t get it back in the last few years and pass it along through his hands again to my little sister when she went off to college.

And that red guitar is irreplaceable to her, allowing her to play and sing out loud the words to songs that mean something to her. And when she’s sitting behind that guitar so far away from the buttes of the ranch, maybe a little lost and frustrated some days with life and the pursuit of finding herself, she can close her eyes and strum and take a deep breath and hear the sounds of home.

And so l’ll tell you, all of the guitars I have ever possessed have given me something–confidence, my first song, a stronger voice. But  I watch my little sister behind that red Guild, the very same guitar that took my dad on the road in bar bands and coffeehouses, that let loose the music inside my heart when he played it for me so long ago, that brings two sisters together in song, voices blending, toes tapping, and I am overwhelmed with the spirt of that instrument.

And I realize that red guitar, the one that played the first chord I have ever heard, the one that found us again strumming the music of home, the one that I never even called mine, has been my greatest gift.