Category Archives: Ranch Life

A look at what this really means.

The pink road

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There is a pink road that leads me to our house in the hills. I guess I always call it pink, but for those of you who are picky about color choices, you could refer to it as a salmon or a coral I suppose. Anyway, this pink road, or red road, or coral road is surfaced with a rock the locals call scoria. Scoria, or what the smarty pants geologists label clinker, is a form of natural brick formed in the landscape by strips of once burning lignite coal. (And that’s probably the only scientific fact you will hear from this woman for a long time, thank you very much Google).

Anyway, I always thought it was stunning–the vibrant road that winds its way through a landscape that changes from green, to yellow, to gold, to brown, to gray, to white and then back again.  And just like the landscape changes, so does the road it seems. In the spring it is at its best, perhaps because we missed it so much, buried under all of that snow for months. It slowly appears a vibrant, soaked deep maroon color digging its way out of the banks, emerging from under ice and puddles of mud. I splash around in it and, with windows rolled down, I zoom out of the yard and over the hills and off somewhere. As the sun warms up the world and the season changes to summer, the once soaked and cold road becomes hot under the rays and turns from deep red to a hazy pink as the rocks break up under the weight of our tires and our feet and the hooves of wild beasts. I drive slowly out of the yard, trying not to disturb it as a tail of dust stretches out behind me.

And then a summer storm passes through, and it looks like God took his favorite, sharp red crayon and drew a nice thin line right down the middle of the neon green grass and dark blue, rolling thunderheads off in the distance. Down through the cool draws and up on top of clover covered hilltops it bends and straightens, leaps and lands and stretches its arms, like the land is the road’s personal dance floor.

And I am the charter member of its fan club.

Because you may pass by it on your way to town, or to the lake, or to your relative’s farm, and not even glance at the subtle invitation to take a little trip with it. But I have will never refuse it again.

When I was really young, like four or five, I lived with my family in Grand Forks, ND. On my favorite weekends I would be lifted into my dad’s pickup by my little armpits and I would sit proudly alongside him as we made our way across the piece of pavement that stretched a good five or six hours across the great state and out to my grandparent’s ranch–our ranch. At four or five everything seems bigger and every travel adventure seems further and longer than it is in reality. When I was certain we had been in the pickup at least fifty-six hours, it was then I would start looking for the pink road that signified our arrival. With my nose smooshed to the window, I would watch for the white line to break and open itself up to the approach that welcomed me like an old friend.

“Are we there  yet?”

“How much longer?”

“When are we going to be there?”

And when we arrived on that stream of road, even at four or five I could breathe a sigh of relief, because even then, the road meant home to me.

But it also meant so much more. It meant comfort and adventure and family and my grandmother’s arms wrapped tight in a hug.

When we moved out here permanently as a family when I was in second grade, there was no more waiting and looking and asking when were we going to get there.

We had arrived.

And the road held my hand like an old friend as I wobbled on my first ten speed bike and followed it up the hill to my best friend’s house. It soaked up the blood from skinned knees and tears from lost dogs and hurt feelings. It created space between hurtful words exchanged among three very different and very frustrated sisters. It eaves dropped on my quiet, made up songs, scuffed my new shoes and laughed as the bottle calf chased us home from the barn after a feeding. It smiled sweetly as it lead me back to my mother after a couple short stints of running away. It welcomed me off of the school bus and happily took the brunt of my skid marks as I learned to drive.

And then slowly, the road began to change, taking on an entirely different meaning as I grew from a young girl to a teenager. Without me really noticing, it began to mean more to me going out than coming in. It meant escape, freedom, independence, civilization, relief and a chance at love. It didn’t recognize me anymore as I came and went in the mist of the early morning and the shadows of late nights. I didn’t frolic as much, but instead began to sneak and sulk and stomp.  I brought strangers home and they littered its ditches and the grass grew around my bicycle as I stepped on the gas to my new life and wasn’t so quiet about kicking up its dust.

But when the time came to leave, to really leave this place for a good long time, I closed the door to my bedroom, hugged my parents goodbye,  filled my trunk with memories and followed my old friend out into the world.

From the corner of my rearview mirror, I smiled a bit as the road waved at me from the hill top, always the last to say to say goodbye.

And the first to welcome me back.

So I am thinking about the road today because I think I owe it an apology. Because I feel a bit like an old friend who hasn’t picked up the phone to say hello for ages and then suddenly stops in for dinner, without warning. I want to bring it a casserole in Lutheran Lady fashion in an attempt to make amends and let it know that I am older now. That I understand.

Because I realize, in this moment, that I have learned something from this road after all of those years of watching it dance. See, the road never cut through a hill or plowed down the trees. It moved with the curve of the land and under the rhythm of our feet and trusted that it would meet up in the right way with something–a fork, a bend, an endless horizon–in the end.

The road trusted so much in the path it was taking that it changed color and texture to blend and bend and take the heat of our tires and our words and our plans to leave. It understood that just like the landscape changes, so do the seasons of the human spirit. And even as I spit on and kicked its stones and turned my wheel off of its path, my entire life the road was just trying to tell me to follow my feet.

So I am thankful today. Thankful for the road. Because after changing my shoes a few dozen times, knocking down doors, banging my head against the wall, digging holes in the dirt, speeding lazily along the interstate and sticking out like a water tower on the horizon, in all of my despair and frustration I closed my eyes tight and saw the road, waving like it did so many years ago.

And I finally stopped stomping and looked down to find my feet dancing on pink stones.

Listen to “This Road”-Jessie Veeder Live at Outlaws

This Road


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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.

And the coyotes followed me home…

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I took a walk on what the weather man calls a “Goldie Locks Day” out to my favorite spot on the place, the East Pasture. It turned into quite the adventure, as I quickly learned the location of the coyote den that has been causing such a eerie ruckus in the evenings at the ranch. Coyote pups were popping their heads up like curious teenage boys over every hill and in every nook and cranny to check out the commotion of the weird animals hoofing it across their turf. I think I ran into about four or five, and was a little unnerved when I turned around to find Hondo, my chocolate lab following close behind me and a coyote just as close at his tail. Oh, and no Chug the pug to be found.

I broke out in a fast trot then, with one cheek turned over my shoulder. You know, I’ve been in this situation before, but I was on a horse. So I wanted to get a fair distance between me and the wild animal. I figured I’d call to my little dog when I got to a good lookout point–you know away from any brush where I was now sure the unexpected was bound to jump out at me at any moment. And then it occurred to me that no matter how tough and big my beefy pug is in his mind, he bears a strong resemblance to a rabbit…especially to a coyote.

Oh shit.

I yelled for him at the top of the hill.

No pug.

Walked a little further. Called his name again.

No pug.

I made it home.

Hondo took a nice little dive in the stock tank. Tried to get him out. He wouldn’t budge. At least he wasn’t worried.

Called to the pug.

No pug.

Called husband.

“I think the coyotes got the pug.”

“Hmmm…Really? Why do you think that?”

“Because he looks like a rabbit…and he’s not very smart…and they were swarming me. The coyotes! They were swarming around me.” (I may have exaggerated here, just a little, to get the point across about the urgency of the situation).

“Hmmm. Yeah, he does look like a rabbit.”

I am trying to decide now if dear husband should have been a bit more concerned about the little dog. I mean, if I’m not mistaken, he almost sounded like he was smiling, just a little, over the phone.

Anyway, husband instructed the following: take his pickup and his .22 to scare anything off and go look for the pug.

I called dad for a second opinion.

Same opinion.

I took a long time to get my shoes on.

I called to the pug again.

I called husband again.

I took a long time looking for the gun.

I opened the door to face the inevitable, gruesome death of a lap dog…

The pug was home.

Crisis averted.

At least I got some good cardio, an adrenaline rush and some photos to share of this gorgeous and wild backyard.

But I wish I could ask him what happened out there…he seems pretty shaken up 🙂

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

What Rain Looks Like

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I had plans for another hot day at the ranch, but woke up to a nice, refreshing surprise this morning–the sound and smell of rain outside my open windows. The wind wasn’t blowing, the tree branches weren’t moving, there was no lightning–just calm, steady, trickling, warm rain. This means so much to the landscape this late in the season. I am not sure what the farmers have to say about it, but the moisture will help it stay green out here just a little longer and I’m ok with that. So I took a walk to capture what rain looks like on a North Dakota summer morning. Everything seemed to sparkle and open up wide to thank the sky. Even my lawn ornament looked refreshed.

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Now I’m off to pick up my nieces. We were going to hit the pool, but I think we will play cowboy all weekend instead (which is much more fun).

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.

Tiger Lilies and Sweet Clover

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There are certain things at the ranch that signify we’ve moved on to mid-summer–mosquito bites, 80+ weather, thunderstorms, the yellow clover and, my favorite, tiger lilies.

I wish you could smell it out here.  The air is heavy with the the lush, fresh scent of this wild (and, if I were a cow, delicious would be an adjective here) sweet clover.  I wish I could bottle this air up, or make it a plug-in scent, or sell it to the candle companies to burn on the long winter nights, to help remind me that this time does come, in all its wonder and splendor and drama.

I took a walk this morning before the hot weather hit to gather some tiger lilies we saw on a side hill on our ride the other night. Usually these wild variety are quite rare on the landscape, but if you spot a patch one summer, and the weather is right, they will most likely be there the next. I am sure many of you grow these flowers outside your home, but there is nothing like coming up over a hill filled with wild grasses, prickly brush and cactus to find these vibrant orange, perfectly constructed, delicate flowers dotting the landscape. This morning I couldn’t believe how many there were. Maybe I’m too simple, but it was simply thrilling to me.

Happy mid-summer to you. Enjoy our beautiful world this weekend, and enjoy your 4th of July!

Small spaces

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It’s quite clear that I am enamored with all of this space around me–all of the grass and the sky and the pink road that stretches on for miles onto the horizon. I stand outside and feel like I could simply blow away with the leaves in this vast landscape, no more significant than a field mouse really.

But I am a completely different size in this house. In fact, I am actually quite significant, and so is my shoe population, unfortunately for my husband’s side of the closet. Just to give you a bit of a visual of what we are dealing with here, when you knock on the door, you can see directly into the bedroom (and if you take five steps, you will be inside of it). Closing the bedroom doors would be an option, except that they have windows–beautiful, but not so practical when you’re in the process of changing your shorts and the neighbor pops in for a chat. And if my husband and I were standing side by side in the living room and tried to perform the chicken dance the way it was meant, our elbows would be scraping the sides of the room, which rules out any kind of gymnastics performances. I haven’t nearly successfully completed the move of all our earthly possessions from our three bedroom, three bathroom home to our new humble abode and we have already nearly covered every moveable inch with stuff. And when you throw two people, and two dogs (one of them the size of a small teenage boy) into the mix, there is not much floor space to skip around in. And I do like to dance and sometimes kick a leg up while doing the dishes,  so that throws a bit of a kink in my style.

But I am not complaining. In fact I like living in smaller spaces, because, when it comes down to it it means less surface area to have to worry about dusting and scrubbing and vacuuming, and I’m really all for that. Anyway, I am sure, unless  you were born into the Hilton family or are waiting to be crowned the next king or queen of a country,  most of us have had the experience, or will have the gift of living in close quarters with someone we promised to have and hold no matter how many times we step on each others’ toes while brushing our teeth. In fact, I think it should be a requirement that all couples who are contemplating a life long commitment, live together in a one bedroom, one bathroom, one closet home. Because nothing spells love and commitment quite like holding your pee while your dearly beloved finishes his morning grooming ritual.

No, there is no hiding anything here really. Last night, we sat down in the living room for a lovely dinner of burned grilled chicken legs (I cooked), my husband sprawled out in his recliner, me and my plate dangerously close to his reclined stocking feet,  and I couldn’t get past the fact that my instant rice tasted a bit like a foot that had been crammed into a pair of work boots all day in 90 degree weather. Ugh, I think I can still smell it.

Although there is no hiding from the unfortunate stenches, there is also no hiding from each other. You wake up in the morning and as you move about the house, reaching for the coffee, your hand gently brushes his. You get ready for the day and you lean across his body for your comb and laugh as you watch him crane and distort his nose and mouth while he works to shave his face. He stands in the kitchen, cutting up onions for his famous and favorite soup and the smell of bay leaves and butter wrap around you and you can’t help but get up to do the same to him. The walls move in on you and you  move closer to one another. You are no longer swallowed up in the space between the multiple rooms you once used to get away from one another in an argument, but forced to look in the eye the emotions that have been provoked. The whispers in the dark sweep over you and the laughter rattles the foundation. There is no need to shout.

But when I am stubbing my toe on the coffee table for the thirteenth time that day or tripping over the damn dog in the middle of the floor, I can not believe this is where my five cousins, two sisters, two aunts, two uncles and my parents spent holiday weekends, cooking, eating, sleeping and, let’s be honest here, putting on interpretations of the “Wizard of Oz.” It seemed so much bigger when I was growing up. Interesting, considering that it was full of so much more than bodies, but of laughter and love and conversations, the smell of homemade bread, a house cat and a large Christmas Tree. Where did we all sleep? How did we manage to put on what I would consider successful and entertaining dance performances to Paula Abdul? How did we all fit around the kitchen table? And where did my grandmother keep all of her shoes for crying out loud?

I don’t know. I remember only faintly what it looked like in here, what photos she hung and where my grandfather’s easy chair sat. As I curse the closet space and shove my luggage under the bed of the very room my grandmother used to sleep in after a day of chores and raising three children, I wonder if she ever cursed the small stove or wished she had room for a bigger kitchen table. I imagine her life here, where her bed was placed and if the sun hit her face the same way it hits mine in the summer mornings and if she left the windows open at night like I do. I imagine her as a light hearted wife humming in the kitchen while plopping down pancakes for breakfast. Sometimes, when I’m outside,  I  swear I can hear her calling to the cattle or to her grandkids to come inside for supper. I compare her life to mine in this house, between these walls and how different this world must be from hers.

But seeing my tupperware shoved in the re-done cupboards, the laundry stacked up on the bed, the unopened cans waiting for me to rearrange the pantry and the work boots scattered in the entry way, I long to fill this house they way she filled it. I want people to sit close, eat my cooking and drink my bad coffee. I want our laughter and kitchen light to flood the farmyard late into the night and bounce off the buttes and make the landscape ring with life.

And some days, when I am scrubbing the floor or dusting the shelves, I feel like her. I feel her smile spread across my face, her kink in my back. And I wonder if this house held her the way it is holding me. I wonder if these walls closed in on them the way they have on us, urging us to break down, to touch, to hold on tight to each other.  I wonder if she stood in the kitchen making dinner for her husband and if he felt moved to come up behind her and gently kiss her cheek. I wonder if she danced in the living room. I wonder if she tripped over her coffee table and walked out into the landscape and opened her arms up wide and smiled as the big, blue sky swallowed her up.

Weekend Ride

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It was a gorgeous weekend at the ranch and wanted to share some photos of moving horses between the two places. It’s a simple chore,  but I love summer evenings when the light is disappearing slowly, casting dramatic shadows across the landscape. Truly a breathtaking backyard if I do say so myself.

Chad moving equipment

Attempting a simple swing on.

Another approach

Failed. I guess I'll just walk to the barn and get the saddle with the understanding that I'm not what I used to be (although, I blamed it on my too-tight pants). The mare is not enthused, as you can see here.

The guys and the mule taking it slow down the road

Critter trail

Taking the long way. Can you see the moon?

Mushroom Tree

Shadows

My view. Always a bit behind, I bring out the slow in horses. Fine for a leisurely ride, but never won me any buckles.

Almost there

Coming into the yard

Settling in

Home

Impractical Shoes

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I have nothing on my face except sunscreen. I haven’t shaved my legs in enough days to make the neighbors uncomfortable. I have yet to take a shower today, even after a long run in the hills.  I think small animals have begun to nest in my wild, frizzy hair (it’s the humidity people, the humidity). I have dirt under my fingernails, horse hair stuck to my sweaty arms and yet another wood-tick crawling on my pants.

And I am loving every minute of this stinky day.

It’s not the first day I’ve spent like this since officially moving out here a couple weeks ago. In fact, I’ve spent more days than not, shall we say, au-natural. And this is how it used to be for me. Back before I discovered that maybe a little mascara wouldn’t hurt anyone, carrying a purse is convenient as well as fashionable, and yes, I should probably wear a bra in public (that is the decent, Christian thing to do). See, I was a bit of a tom boy growing up, but most wouldn’t peg me as one now. Because,  I was also blessed with a mother who has an eye for fashion and worked pretty hard to make sure her girls looked the cute part in public.

Thank God for her really.

When I first began singing with my dad, on stages, in front of people, my mom was charged with the gift of dressing me. And I had a strict idea of what I should be dressed like (wranglers, shirt buttoned up to the top, cowboy hat, belt, boots…I think we have gone here before with the whole 4-H thing? Yeah, that wasn’t just my uniform for the County Fair, that was my uniform for life…after I got over the whole leotard and tights thing…).

Anyway, my mother, God bless her again, would gently coax me to maybe undo the top button of my Garth Brooks inspired brush-popper, or try to tip my hat up a bit so people could see my eyes. She would bring some new outfits home from her travels and convince me to try them on, and depending on the day and the garment, I may or may not have agreed to add it to my wardrobe. During my first few real stage performances standing alongside dad, all of my nerves and anxiety would not be thrust into the fact that I was about to go up and play guitar in front of people for the first time, that would be too logical. I could have used that energy to practice a bit more, Lord knows I needed to. No, all my nervous energy was thrown at my outfit. And my poor mother would have to sit with me as I sprawled out on the bathroom floor of the venue, crying while I blamed her for the fact that I looked like a total dork, dweeb, loser face and asking her, while we were at it, why, why, why did you let me wear leotards and tights? I mean, that stuff is documented in family photo albums across the country!

But my mom never fought back. She was always about self expression in the form of fashion, whatever your fashion choice might be. She was a pageant queen and a dancer for crying out loud (how far apart in worlds could I possibly be from this graceful, dignified woman?) And with her quiet guidance, I eventually found my own style that was acceptable outside of Jazzercise classes and the rodeo arena. As I continued performing and went on to the big school in town where the styles looked a little more like “Saved by the Bell” than a country music video, I began to get the point. In High School I started to develop a love affair with shoes and that spiraled into purses and cheap sundresses and belts and heels and I went on to college and on the road with my music. I learned to manage my less than tame-able mane and cleaned up my style with the idea that I should always sport something that I won’t regret in photos years later.  The neon western shirts never returned.

In my younger adult life I was fortunate enough to have some fun with my style, but as a professional woman who, until recently, worked in fundraising at a small college, I dressed the part. I wore heels and liked it. I wore a suit jacket and appropriate buttoned up shirts. I wore tights and dresses and ironed my clothes.

And I confused people.

When the email went out to my co-workers a few weeks before my scheduled departure about my plans to move back to the ranch where I grew up and begin “eco-tourism opportunities” I got a few curious inquiries and guests at my going away party. One person, in particular, made a special phone call to me to wish me well, but to mostly get the scoop. When I explained my situation, and convinced him that I was indeed excited to be moving back, and that yes, I ride horses and yes, I will be helping my dad and starting a business out here, his reaction was disbelief. He said he wouldn’t have guessed it. By the way I dressed, he always saw me as some sort of prim and proper prissy girl. Another person indicated that I looked a little too “uptight”  to receive his typical going away gift (a framed portrait of himself), another told me I will have to start dressing the part out there if I wanted to convince people.

They thought I was full of shit.

Which got me thinking about appearances. It is like our clothing, our makeup, our hair is our invitation for people to read our book, to hear our story, to open our cover and take a look inside. None of these people who knew me only at the office, or as a fellow college student, or someone I just met at a bar or on the street, would have pegged me and my big damn hair and my strappy sandals as a woman who used to get shit canned off of a green-broke horse regularly during childhood or someone who really doesn’t mind snakes or heavy lifting (although “heavy”  is really relative. Despite my upbringing, I have never actually developed any form of upper body strength or confidence with large machinery…in fact, once I nearly killed one of our hired men with a tractor, but I’ll explain myself later.)

This somewhat superficial judgement is not a bad thing. This is human nature. This is society. This is the real world.

But today, in my grass stained jeans, bare feet and unpainted face, I am reminded of the girl I used to be–or the girl I really am. The girl who paid no attention to the fact that her socks didn’t match. The girl who would wear the same shirt day in and day out because it was my favorite, dammit, and it had horses on it. The girl whose skin was brown from the sun soaked up from playing and working hard in the dirt, the girl with the fuzzy ringlets springing out of her ponytail, unwilling to be tamed, unwilling to conform, much like the girl herself.

And I am relieved. Like take a deep breath and hold back the tears relieved. Because I’d lost this girl for a little while. I’d lost her to career paths and paychecks and date nights and deadlines and making an impression that it turns out, I didn’t really want to make. I was working so damn hard to smooth out the wrinkles of who I really was without realizing how important those wrinkles were to me. I was going to the gym to tighten and tone a body that was meant not to sit in a chair behind a desk, but to shovel rock and brush horses and mow the lawn and get bucked off and run up to the top of the hill to see the view. With my buttoned up blouses and my hoop earrings, I was putting up a shield I was unaware of. A shield that was blocking out the best parts of me, not only from others, but from myself as well.

Now, don’t get me wrong here. This confusion will still remain I am sure. Because I like my fancy shoes and my purses and, because I finally got my ears pierced, my dangly earrings. I can strut my stuff with the best of them. But this wardrobe thing is an accent–my abstract book cover that entices you to read the back to get the gist of the plot.

Yes, some people will hear about what I’m doing and where I’m from and wonder why I’m walking around in impractical foot gear with a pile of bracelets on my arm. They will think I’m full of shit.

But you can be whoever the hell you want out here. The cows don’t care.

And I am not confused anymore.

I am a sweaty, muddy, perfumed, tattooed, mascaraed, diamond donning woman in great shoes with scrawny arms,mosquito bites, a bad tan line, chipped nail polish and well groomed eyebrows.

And I haven’t showered in days.