If only the night would wait…

Posted on October 20, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

The night.

Slowly it sweeps over us, peeking out from behind the horizon, warning that another day will soon be gone–that time has passed us once again.

That it always wins.

We scramble to get the chores done, our dinners served and dishes cleaned.

Our babies bathed and tucked in tight.

And as we sing the first few lines of a familiar lullaby, the black cloak is draped and the moon rises outside our windows so humble, so unassuming that we often miss it as our eyes grow heavy and our breath evens out and the weight of the darkness creeps over our roofs.

And when the moon makes its way up to center sky, the wind grows calm under its rays, the grass stoops low and the night creatures with eyes that flash from the hillsides and from deep in the brush make plans for an unnoticed life.

So the civilized turn in, shut doors, move locks and draw curtains, hoping this time, tonight, to keep the quiet out.

But out here the quiet is loud…

…so loud…

Because once the last of the coyotes finish their star serenade, they laugh as they leave us with nothing.

Nothing but the silence that envelops us and screams the things we cannot be, the places we will never go, the people we will never hold, the words we should have never said…

..the words we should have delivered instead.

So we reach for our loves, pull covers up tight, curse at the clocks and turn on our TVs to drown out the calm…the silence.

We whisper.

Our words prick the air.

We squeeze our eyes tight against it.

And under this blanket of black we lay on our backs and fight the dark with thoughs of the morning…

…and dream of the things we could be…

…if only the night would wait.

Cowboy Cooks Knoephla

Posted on October 18, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Everybody loves to eat. Especially during this season of the cool down when we all want to give in to those animal instincts telling us to stock up and hibernate.

Yes, everyone loves food. Even those of us who have been known to use our ovens for storage have a dish we try to re-create from our childhood—grandmother’s oatmeal cookies, aunt’s pickles, mother’s secret homemade mac and cheese that turned out was just Velveeta with a little milk over fancy noodles.

And out here, where the coyotes howl outside our window, the grocery store is a good thirty miles away and delivery is not an option unless you are planning on paying a serious fee, we count on those familiar favorite recipes to bring us together around a dinner table, in one room, under the vast prairie sky.

Hey, just because we get more dirt on our clothes and poop on our shoes than the rest of civilization doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy a fine dining experience.

So we make our own.

Well, “we” may not be the most honest term here.

Because, like my good friend Napoleon Dynamite, I have some sweet skills…cat scouting skills, Internet surfing skills, guitar skills, horse hairdressing skills, and the most practiced and honed skill of all…eating. Passionate eating.

I am good at eating.

But not so good at cooking…unless I have specific instructions and an entire day and a half to plan it out and execute a recipe. And by then I’m usually too tired from the effort of it all and too full from sampling each ingredient that I have no wish to eat again for another solid, well….ummm….thirty to forty minutes.

It’s exhausting.

No, I have little patience for food that doesn’t come directly from a box.

So although I can’t provide you with life-changing recipes that you will pass on from generation to generation (unless you wish to pass down that mac and cheese recipe, then I’m all in), I can give you something better.

Yes, much, much better.

See I know someone who doesn’t say much. He’s skilled and handsome and very, very tolerant. An unlikely character who knows cooking because he honed his skills alongside a woman who honed her skills alongside a woman who put heart and flour and some of that wholesome German-Russian discipline into her food.

Yup, he knows cooking.

So I married him.

Oh, husband has recipes, secret recipes that he has sharpened and perfected and put his own, rugged twist on. He has them tucked up under his hat and they come out of him in all of this lovely, delicious and oh so soul warming, buttery and carbohydrate loaded food that makes me weak in the knees. And then I promptly lay down in bed, pull the covers over my head knowing that I could die in my sleep and my last meal would be the best meal of my life.

Ok, I’m a little dramatic perhaps, but he does cook….really, really well.

We can all thank his momma for this.

And you can thank me and number one skill—persuasion—for getting him to agree to let me follow him around our tiny kitchen and document his every move.

Yup, my mad skills come in handy.

So hold on to your ladles as I present to you the first installment of—

A Cowboy In the Kitchen: Recipes and philosophy from the epitome of man—the cowboy. Expect heartiness. Expect butter. Expect meat. Expect robust flavors. Expect bad grammar. Expect a mess.

But please, don’t expect diet food.

Our agreement? Husband gets to wear his hat and his fancy shirt, in all its polyester glory...

Today’s Recipe:

Homemade Knoephla Soup with Chicken (cause a cowboy’s gotta get his protein)

And before we go any further, the cowboy wants you to know that this doesn’t have to be pretty. And it ain’t gonna be quick. Soup is about the process; so hang in for the long haul and don’t get hung up on meticulous measuring. There will no measuring spoons or cups, but a lot of pinches, dashes and shakes.

The only spoon you need is your taste test spoon. Use it often for best results.

And last but not least…

The #1 rule of soup. You can always add to it, but you can’t take it back.

Mooooving right along.

Cast of characters:

A Cowboy
A good attitude (no bitchin’ in the kitchen)
3 to 5 ice cubes
Your favorite whiskey
Six chicken drumsticks or three chicken leg quarters, thawed
1 egg
1 cup milk
1/2 stick of butter
4 medium potatoes
6-8 green onions
4 large carrots
Half and Half
Chicken Base or Bouillon Cubes
Bay leaves
Rosemary
Basil
Parsley
Celery Salt
Thyme
Cilantro
Salt

(Yup, I know what you’re thinking, that’s a lot of spices. But, didn’t John Wayne say something about trust?) Anyway.

And finally…

One brother-in-law who will smell this from his camper in the yard and come over to see what’s cookin’

Step 1: Prepare

Put the ice cubes in your favorite glass
Pour desired amount of whiskey over the cubes
Take a drink

(This is not optional)

Step 2: The Broth

Put as much water in to the pot as you want soup broth. (Too much is better than not enough. A cowboy’s logic in the kitchen and in life. )
Place chicken and bay leaves into the water
Add a two fingered pinch of rosemary and a sprinkle of salt
Bring to a gentle boil
Continue boiling until the chicken is cooked through–approximately 1/2 hour, but the longer the better, as the point is to cook the flavor out of the chicken to create a tasty broth.

Now kick back in your favorite recliner, sip some more whiskey and wait.

Once the chicken is cooked to your liking, remove it from the pot and skim the excess fat off the top of the water

Season the broth with:
- A sprinkle of salt
- A pinch of minced garlic
- A couple shakes of basil
- A couple shakes of celery salt
- A pinch of thyme (Cowboy’s not sure what this is, but puts it in anyway ‘cause it sounds fancy)
- A generous couple shakes of parsley
- 3 tablespoons of chicken base (or several bullion cubes)

Waft the soup up to your nose to get a good whiff. Smells delicious. Add more seasoning if you wanna.

Stir.

And while you’re at it why don’t you take another sip of whiskey

Step 3: Soup contents

Remove the skin from the chicken and pull meat from the bone. Cut into bite sized pieces

Peel and dice four medium sized potatoes

Slice four large carrots

Dice 6-8 green onions

And…a half a stick of butter (optional. If you’re feeling diety, you can skip it, but it sure makes it tasty)

Add all above ingredients to the soup and continue cooking on low heat until the potatoes are tender. About 20 minutes.

mmmm…it smells good in here…I’m stttaaaarrrrvvvviiinnngggg…..

On a side note, this is what we have to work around...ridiculous.

In the meantime…the best part…

Step 4: The knoephla

Mix one egg with a cup of milk

Add a dash of salt and stir

Sprinkle flour on your counter or table to avoid stick

Add flour (about 3 to 4 cups) to the mixture and then knead the dough on the table until it no longer sticks to your hands and the consistency reminds you of play dough

Roll the dough out in to thin, round strips that look like small snakes

When the potatoes are done, using a kitchen scissors, clip off about ½ inch pieces of the dough and drop into soup mix

(you don’t have to use all of the dough, just put in as many as you like. Cowboy usually needs to upgrade to a bigger pot)

Cook kneophla until they float to the top of the soup mixture. About 10-15 minutes.

Step 5: The finale

When the knoephla pieces pop to the top of the mixture, take a little taste of the broth to see if it needs anything. Add more seasoning if you wanna.
Then, if you’re feeling too skinny, add to the mix a ½ pint of half and half. (c’mon you know you wanna) Heavy whipping cream also works, but we didn’t want to scare you off.

Say, “mmm.mmm.mmmm.”
Stir
Ladle into big boy sized bowls and serve with crackers and bread (because really, we need more carbs)

Time to eat!

Then leave the dishes for tomorrow and tip your hat down over your face and turn in for the night.

Agh, I’m exhausted.

We ate too much...

Cowboy says: “If it’s not the best soup you’ve ever eaten it’s because you missed the important ingredient…whiskey….or was that love? Yeah, love.

Repeat steps 1-5 adding more whiskey, which results, consequently, in more love.

Happy Kneophla to ya!

Sexy, sexy sky

Posted on October 16, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Let’s talk about the sky. Really. Let’s take a look at the one thing we all have in common and embrace it and love it with all that it deserves. Because frankly, I think it’s getting tired of being overlooked, acting out like it has been the last couple days.

So alright, alright I see you. And I apologize for ignoring your these last few months, eyes on the trees as they change clothes, eyes on the dirt, eyes on the road, eyes on this guy…

eyes on my work, eyes on the future and eyes on the back of my lids when I’m trying to sleep.

But really, I have been amazed at the show it has put on for us the last couple days. I mean Crayola doesn’t even make colors this spectacular, not even in the jumbo pack. Yes, in some sort of grand finale to this harvest season the sky chose to feature a light show to spruce up the mundane landscape that has shed its leaves and has been feeling rather chilly lately, thank you very much.

How generous of the sky to strike a match to start a fire of fires–nice and toasty, no need for a sweater thanks, a light jacket will do. The sky has warmed us all up.

And made us look damn good.

Because, as my dear momma tells me, it’s all about the lighting.

And she’s right.

She’s usually right about most everything, especially when it comes to looking your best.

And it turns out, this landscape looks damn good naked as the sky casts a golden light upon its flesh and then softens it up with a bath of pink before pulling the silk sheets up over us and turning off the lights for the evening.

Sexy, sexy sky.

So strike a pose people (and pug), take off that wool scarf, let it all hang out and look up for crying out loud. The sky’s got your back, and you’re gorgeous, absolutely stunning.

And so is this guy, don’t you think?

Have mercy.

Sometimes I think life is one damn masterpiece after another.

See ya out there!

Heaven help the cat farmer…

Posted on October 15, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Ok, so I realize I am running a major risk of turning into one of those ladies….

But last night, after I had so clearly declared my feelings about the state of the cats in my life and posted it with authority and a couple necessary exclamation points for the world to see, feeling pretty free and right with the world and where I stand as far as cats are concerned, I headed out to the barn to practice taking pictures with my shiny, new fancy nancy, big girl camera.

I was glowing. This machine could quite possibly be the single most beautiful thing I have ever owned (besides the pug of course, but I don’t own him….no, that’s a free spirit there…free as the wind…and I’m pretty sure he owns me). Ok, the camera…yes, it’s more complicated than any woman I know. With more bells and whistles and mysterious features, not only is this contraption equipped to capture some undoubtedly precious moments, I am pretty sure, if I find the right button, it could very well send me back in time, or at least to the moon or something. Yes, my life is sure to be transformed with this little piece of magic…or, you know, allow me to capture an image in lowlight for starters.

Anyway, I was out gallivanting around, looking at the world from the other side of a lens that really, I’m not sure I’m worthy of owning. And as I was taking pictures of the inside of the barn, reveling in how beautiful old things can become when you spend enough money to be able to see them in high resolution (as opposed to the resolution of real life, which, as it turns out, sometimes doesn’t seem to compare…especially if you don’t wear the glasses you were prescribed), I heard it…

The lab, who had been hot on the trail of a mole or something heard it….

The pug,? Yes, of course the pug heard it…

“mew…”

Faint at first, I ignored it, certain it had to be the crazy cat from the house following me again. Cats take a while to learn a lesson.

I continued my quest for a Nobel Peace Prize winning photograph…

“…mew…mew…mew…”

Shrill, high pitched, panicky…

Ok, that’s not the noise of a creature I feed from a bowl.

But look at that magnificent spider web and those old horseshoes…

“…mew…mew…mew…”

Shit.

This is a plea for help. This is the sound of a creature that needs rescuing—this means business. And no doubt another house guest.

So, as you can imagine, even though I didn’t get around to making the pug the cape I promised him, the super-dog was all over this investigation.

Just call him the Cat Whisperer. Actually, I think his first book is scheduled for release this winter.

“mew…mew…mew…mew…”

It just couldn’t be ignored so off we went, the pug gallantly leaped through the window of the barn and landed nose to the ground toward the pathetic squeaks. And the lab, not to miss a good hunt, squeezed all 105 pounds of him right behind.

Well of course I couldn’t be left out, and going around to the door and out to the source of the “mews” would waste precious time, so I squeezed through too….you know, all of me…somehow…

Anyway, after the nose of the lab and the nose of the pug took them screaming through the barnyard, weaving in and out of the hay bales, very dramatically collecting burs and kicking up birds, I took two steps and looked down at my feet to discover what I had expected:

A tiny, fluffy, noisy, pathetic, desperately adorable, fit in the palm of my hand, kitten searching high and low for her momma, you know, in an old tire.

Oh, I’m no momma, and I couldn’t find one around anywhere, especially not in the tire, so, well you know what happened next.

I mean, how could you leave something like this out alone in the world?

Not possible.

So I swept her up and pulled her close to my face and said a few things like:

“Oh, hewo widdle kiddy kiddy…awen’t you the cutest widdle kiddy kiddy…whews yo mamma? Huh? Whews yo mamma?”

Yup, I was her.

I was that.

Crazy.

Cat.

Lady.

Crazy cat lady.

Fast or slow, punctuation or no punctuation, any way you dice it, it always spells:

C R A Z Y.

And that kitty kitty, I’m sure was glad to be saved.

It took me .5 seconds after that to get back to the house, which was not nearly enough time to concoct a story to tell husband about why oh why I was bringing yet another furry thing into our tiny, tiny home.

But as soon as I opened the door and sweetly presented our little gift from the cat gods (or from someone who is playing a dirty, nasty trick on me for ever having said an ill word toward the species) husband grabbed her up.

And when I began the inevitable photo shoot of the new addition?

getting acquainted...not going so well at this point...

He told me to stop.

Stop?

Yes stop.

“You are scaring her.”

And then, after my failed attempt at giving her milk, he fed her spaghetti.

And put her in his pocket.

And told me to stay back.

“She’s mine. “

Good Lord, what have we become?

The crazy cat lady has created a monster.

Or a cat farmer.

I wonder if this one will get a name?

Heaven help the softhearted.

I give up.

NOW IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME, I’VE GOT TO GET A CAT OFF MY CAPS LOCK…

It’s a jungle out here.

Posted on October 13, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I’m telling you, it’s a jungle out there.

Well, I’ll be honest here (because I am what I am) it is generally a jungle in here as well.

You know, with the four critters, two humans and occasional visitor popping over for supper…oh, and lovely brother in law who is living in his camper in our yard while on a job out here. Love him. He washes the dishes and brings me Oreos and grills us chicken. I’ll tell you more about him later, because you are sure to like him too…

but today I want to tell you a tale about adventure—a tale of travel and danger and betrayal and close calls with death and rescue and heroism and reuniting, passionate, true love.

A real Indiana Jones type story…

Only this involves a pug, some disheveled horses, a couple humans and….a cat.

A damn cat.

Damn the cat.

Dammit cat.

Cat, dammit

Dammit.

Cat.

Ok.

So last weekend was lovely and I spent it with an old friend and a new friend and they came out to the funny farm to take a nice relaxing ride in the hills, breathe in the fresh air and take in the beautiful fall day.

I’ll note here that I was all alone out here last weekend with my momma down the road, because you know, it’s hunting season.

The boys didn’t even leave me the lab.

Anyway, so I was excited for a ride with the ladies, but unsure of the equine skill set my guests possessed. So I decided to play it safe, because, well, you know my track record with luck and injuries isn’t so great. I didn’t want to put them in harm’s way. I didn’t want a rodeo. I wanted peace and peace of mind.

So out to the pasture I went to retrieve our best-tamed broncs.

Well, broncs isn’t quite the word.

Nor is tamed really.

Old and relatively lame might be better adjectives.

Oh, and absolutely full of cockleburs and mud from spending their elderly days out to pasture relaxing, chomping on greens and pretty much letting themselves go.

But it was time that Stormy and The Mare earned their keep around here and after literally waking them up (I think I caught the entire herd snoring) and dragging their fat asses back to the barn, I proceeded to use my hair dressing skills (I have some sweet skills I haven’t told you about yet) to remove a field of burs from their manes. After much cussing and sniffing and scratching and chunks of hair flying, I decided they might be able to pass as dignified, although slightly older, members of the equine family.

They were ready for their close ups.

They were ready for a stroll.

They looked so good, I actually had to go inside and change to my fancy shirt so we matched.

Stormy and The Mare

Anyway, we were ready and presentable just in time for my old friend and my new friend’s arrival. I introduced them to their mounts and, after an explanation on why The Mare doesn’t have a real name, we were off into the crisp, clear autumn morning.

The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. There was a flawless breeze. Not a cloud in the sky.

Perfection, just as I had planned.

And then…

“Meow….meow….meow….meow….”

What the hell is that?

“Mmmmmeeeeeoooooowwww…..meow…meow…MEEEOOWWW”

Oh, ha ha, how cute, the cat followed us.

I explained to my guests:

“Oh, that’s ok, he’ll turn back. He’ll turn back. How funny. Ha ha.”

They weren’t quite sure.

The Mare started to cough.

The sun shone warm on our backs.

We took in the scenery and talked about how great life is and…

“MEOW. Meow. Meowmewomeowmeowmeow.”

“MEOW”

Well, I guess the cat was not only coming along, he was intent on weaving his little body between the legs of the old beasts’ feet. I mean, anything for a scratch. Anything for attention.

I explained to my guests:

“Here, I’ll try chasing him back. He’ll go home if I just encourage him with a little sound effect…you know, scare him home…..”

My old friend said:

“Good luck with that.”

I said:

“Pssst….pssstt….get back….go home….psst…shhhhhh…..pppppssssssttt…..you little sh…..hahaha…..get back kitty….ppppsssstttt…..”

The Mare groaned.

My new friend was reminded why she is allergic to cats.

Stormy fell asleep.

Stormy

The cat didn’t budge.

“Meow.”

We continued on our merry way and tried to ignore the panicked screams for attention going on below us. A cat that thinks he’s a dog. A cat that thinks he’s a horse. A cat that thinks he is far more adventurous despite the lack of appropriate outfit or gear for this type of wilderness travel.

Then our attention was diverted to The Mare who had somehow developed a major limp since the last time we took her on a stroll.

My old friend wasn’t so sure her horse was going to make it.

I told her it was an act, a ploy for sympathy and attention. She has to exercise. This is good for her. She really has let herself go.

My new friend sneezed.

“Meow….meowwwwwwww…….

Reeeeeaaarrrrrooooow…..REAAAR!”

Silence.

New friend:

“I think my horse just kicked your cat.”

Old, animal loving friend:

“Oh no! Is he ok…is he…”

“Meow, meow, meow…”

Oh, good he survived.

Thinking now would be a good time to head toward home and wondering how much bleeding would be involved with carrying a cat on a horse, we turned toward the corrals.

Barnyard bound, Stormy, who had been trailing a half a mile behind the crew (no doubt facing pangs of jealousy as his much younger rival took up the lead) caught up to give my horse a good kick, you know, to remind him to respect his elders and stop looking so shiny and sleek.

The Mare miraculously recovered from her bad hip or foot or whatever ailment she was faking and picked up speed.

And the cat disappeared.

Oh shit.

Me to my guests:

“Don’t worry, he’ll find his way home. Cats can smell home. Cats are smart.”

Me to myself:

“He’s a goner. Eagle bait. Coyote bait.….shit.”

My old friend was not so sure. My old friend was concerned.

My new friend sneezed.

Onward we pushed, my posse and I, mourning the loss of our adventurous little mate, sure he would pull through, sure it would turn out fine, weary and ragged from the drama of it all (or the dust and bur particles swirling in the air).

We arrived, unsaddled, picked our wedgies, brushed our beasts, gave them a treat…

The Mare, rolling off the drama of the ride, trying to get the stink off...

and listened for the cat….

“Oh, there he is,” old friend exclaimed pointing to brave cat’s identical brother, sleepy, lazy cat. “He made it home after all.”

And honest-to-a-fault me, who has been caught in every untrue story I have woven, pulled off the ultimate sin and lied to my old friend’s face.

“Uuuhhh, yup, there he is. What a trooper.”

I didn’t have the heart. I didn’t want her to worry. I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to get in on the scavenger hunt that would ensue after her car pulled back into civilization.

So my old friend and new friend, who turns out was allergic to pretty much every particle at the ranch, but held it together so graciously and wonderfully for the love of the ride, despite a swollen eye and slowly closing throat, took off back to town, where there is no dirt and cats stay in the house and eat canned food from a fancy dish and there is no toxic dust.

And I convinced myself that the cat would come back.

And hummed that little childhood tune…you know:

The cat came back, the very next day.
The cat came back.
We thought he was a goner.
But the cat came back,
He just wouldn’t stay aaawwwaaayyyy!

I made myself some lunch. All will be well.

Took a bite.

Looked out the window.

Finished my chores.

Looked over the horizon.

Made some supper.

Turned on the yard light.

Read some pages out of my book.

Yelled for the cat.

Fell asleep.

Woke up.

Wandered around the barnyard.

No cat.

Damn cat.

Cat dammit.

Dammit cat.

Now I’ve done it. I’ve lied and will have to explain this to my old friend or risk living a life with one cat who has to play the role of two, you know, like the girl in Parent Trap, in order to convince my friend I’m not a heathen.

And I kinda missed the crazy cat. He was the yin to calm cat’s yang.

He completes….ok, well never mind.

Anyway, it was time to find him. After all, how long could he survive out there with out a proper hat or cargo pants or canteen at least?

So I rounded up Chug the pug (who would have to do in the absence of the lab) and put on my scouting outfit and we went on our own hunt, thank you very much.

My search partner

We backtracked and marched diligently along yesterday’s route, staying on course, except for an occasional pause to take a picture or chase a bird or pet the horses, we were thorough in our efforts.

Through the thick brush, up to the tallest hill I scoured the landscape with one hand on my hip, one to shade my eyes and point, Lewis and Clark style. The pug sniffed the ground and followed hot on the trail…oh wait…not a cat, just a jackrabbit. Keep it together man!

I listened in the silence for brave cat’s cries for help. I scoured the earth, high and low…oh wait, what a beautiful tree….oh, the sky is just stunning today…beep, beep, click…

FOCUS!

The pug slapped me. I slapped the pug. We were back on track, traipsing past where brave cat was allegedly stepped on, past where he meowed, and meowed, and meowed and finally, past the place I was sure he disappeared into the mist of that fine morning.

Oh no, could hope be lost? This was my last resort, my last chance at retrieving this animal that was stupid…I mean loyal… enough to follow his beloved human out into the wilderness….

Oh cat, our time was brief together, but so full of love and life…I’ll miss you…good…

“meow…meow…meow…”

The pug stopped in his tracks. That never happens.

“mmmeeeooowww….mmeeoowww….mmmeeoowww.”

I turned toward the snarly brush behind me…

“meow.meow.meow.meow.”

I looked down. The pug followed. I dug through the brush, moving closer to his pleas for help…

“meow meow meow meow.”

Close now, I looked to the sky to catch a glimpse of two little eyes blinking with worry and anticipation. Our eyes lock and the pug went crazy and started chasing his tail and brave cat, way up in the highest tree, where he undoubtedly built himself a little cat sized hammock and settled in for the night in the middle of the most gnarly brush patch on the ranch, came barreling down to the ground at full speed.

The pug gave him a nuzzle. I gave him an apology and felt really guilty for giving his instincts too much credit.

Brave cat started purring, so I think he forgave me, but wasn’t over it enough to let me carry him home.

Not my biggest fan...

He chose to follow the pug.

"Don't worry buddy, I got your back."

The entire way.

To hell with me.

And Chug the pug proudly lead the way…

Homeward Bound...Milo and Otis...anyone? This is my life....

"C'mon buddy, don't give up, we're almost there..."

And when we finally made it, I got in my car to head to the big city and found that a mouse had taken up residence in my glove box.

What did I say about the jungle? Yeah, it’s out there.

Reunited, and it feels so good...

Damn cat.

Thanks for the help buddy...I really should get you that cape I promised...

Bittersweet-pain and peace

Posted on October 11, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I woke up this morning to a sort of dull haze that had settled into the valleys of this place. It is not a fog, or a mist, just an indescribable thick kind of air that is veiling the bare trees and sharp grasses.

It is a mysterious way to showcase a season that has greeted me every morning from outside the tiny windows of our bedroom with a magnificent sunrise of red and gold and pink and yellow peeking through the snarly, ancient, hibernating oak trees that hug our tiny house. Every morning this world I live in has taken my breath away. Every morning I have been grateful for this.

But this haze took me by surprise as I ventured out onto the landscape to clear my head and put a flush in my cheeks—the very thing I do every day to ensure myself I am alive, to remind these lungs and these legs and these eyes and ears that I sprung from this dirt somehow and that I belong here under this October sky.

At least that is what I hold on tight to, especially in the hardest times, the times when the unanswerable questions scream at us until we fall to our knees.

I am thinking about those questions today as I march across a landscape that was, just months ago, soft and lush and full of life. The trees stood tall, limbs wide and heavy with leaves, the creek beds flowing and moving with the heartbeat of the green moss that lived out brief lives on its surface; the colors of the wildflowers flashy, fertile and bursting with luxury; the green grasses bending and swaying with the rhythm of a warm wind.

Bountiful, beautiful, enchanting life.

But today, under the same sky, the same sun that helped spring life from the earth has stayed long enough to strip the mesmerizing landscape of its inviting softness, turning it harsh, more brittle, sharp and dry and brown under my feet.

With the blanket of green stripped away, any human with a pumping heart could easily be convinced by looking at the pieces left on this bare landscape that all hope is lost. That this is it. That there is life–glorious, colorful, dramatic, passionate, unforgiving life–but it is fleeting. It is over. The green will never return.

But of course every human with a pumping heart knows that this is no time to lay your head down and give up hope of ever smelling the wildflowers or reaching out your tongue to catch a spring raindrop. Every heart who has lived understands that this is just a change of season, the spinning of the planet and from the deep depths of winter there will always be a thaw followed by a crocus pushing through the mud and reaching its pedals to the sky.

And this purple flower will live a life full and proud and fragile, until the love of the sun dries out its face and stems and one day it withers away to return to the earth.

Yes, this is fair to us. This is nature, the circle, the seasons defined. And we accept that we must harvest the wheat, breathe in the fall air, appreciate the inevitable nakedness of the trees and bundle up for the winter. We understand and only morn the loss of a season briefly, because it is sure to come back again.

But as humans who possess a warm, beating, passionate heart, we are confused and thrown off balance when other beating, passionate hearts around us cross over to a different season.

We do not accept.

We do not understand.

We grieve, and scream, and hope and look to something, to someone to tell us where this heart went.

“Will I ever see her again?”

“Is she happy?”

“Where is she?”

“Why not me?”

“Why her?”

“Why?”

So I want to offer something here to all of us who are struggling to find peace in a world that challenges our faith every day. I know when faced with insurmountable loss and grief and pain there are no answers, there is no grip that is tight enough, no kiss warm enough, no clock that moves fast enough. But maybe this can help. Maybe it will resonate with someone as it has with me….

See, as a woman who has lost friends too soon, family too young and who has been a mother, although only briefly, to children who never made it outside of my body to breath the air of this world, I have asked these questions inside of church buildings, in books, in doctor’s offices and while holding on tightly to family.

And I have walked the silent trails of tangled brush and bugs buzzing and abandoned nests and broken branches and have screamed to the sky that we trust so much to hold us together, to remain predicable, to provide the nutrients for the cycle of life.

I have asked:

“Why did I fail?”

“What happens to us now? “

“How do we move on without the hope of an extension of our hearts, taking care and planting feet on this earth?”

And I cried for my loss.

I was angry.

I was scared.

I was aloof and unsure about God.

I was unpredictable.

I was fine.

I wasn’t fine.

And then it started over.

But I kept walking. Because in all of the places I looked, without question, I have found the most comfort under the branches, feet in the mud, face to the sun, hands touching the grasses and lungs sucking in the air.

Because here, I began to understand that nature, under this sky, isn’t as predictable up close as it is from afar. Once I began to come down from the hills and the trails and into the prickly, dirty parts, I found that if you pay attention you discover there is suffering out here that looks just like ours.

Grass blades get torn and consumed by wild beasts, the tiny mouse doesn’t always outrun the hawk, the water cuts ruthlessly into the hillsides, thorns and burs tangle and take over the land, the greenest and most luscious of crops can poison and even the mighty oak can’t run from the storm.

No, there are no guarantees; there is no certain compassion, no protection for the weak, no sympathy in the dirt and no assured shelter from the sweltering sun. It all could very well be hopeless.

But when I take a step closer I notice among the bare, black, snarl of the brush in the dead of the fall, a vibrant, hearty vine wrapping its way toward the sky, holding out for the season, shining bright against the gloom. Bittersweet.

And that mighty oak, despite the eminent snowstorm, with blind faith, releases its acorns with the hope that one of her seeds might take root and touch the sky.

And a weight is lifted off of my heavy heart as I take from the crocus, who has been absent from this season for months, the lesson to live this brief life with passion and vulnerability and beauty and color–and be the first to welcome the light.

Then I take from the oak her hope that those we release into this world will come back to life again. Come back to us. Maybe not in a heaven as most have understood it, but back to the earth, through the crisp clean air, on the scent of a rose, the glisten of dew on the grass, in the breath of a horse, the sigh of a newborn child or the sunrise through a bedroom window each morning–a quiet sign that those heartbeats still surround us.

And from the bittersweet that clings tightly to the thorns, wrapping its beauty around the dark, hard limbs of the tangled brush, holding strong to the splendor and hurt of it all, I take from her the understanding that one day our broken human, pumping hearts will make enough room for the pain…

…and the peace.

Rust, roots and time passed

Posted on October 8, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

There is a place on the ranch my family affectionately refers to as “Pots and Pans.” It is a big hill south of the little farmhouse that juts out over a stock dam and provides a fantastic view of the entire 3,000-acre ranch. It is a landmark, much like the special places many ranching and farming folks label with weird names and use to explain to each other where they spotted that stray cow, shot the big buck or where the truck broke down.

But Pots and Pans is special, if not especially weird. I wish I could tell you the proper origin of where on earth anyone got the idea to drag to the top of this hill old kettles, teapots, cheese graters, pie pans and flour sifters, but I have no idea the reasoning behind it. I always thought it was my grandmother, but maybe not. I suppose someone told me along the way, but I forgot.

Either way, to my cousins and I this place was an oasis of mystery, a far away land where, if you reached the top after gathering all of your little sisters and one little brother, packed the juice boxes and fruit rollups into your Smurf lunchbox and you all made it to the destination without a run-in with a cactus or someone peeing their pants, you could be transported back to a time where these antique contraptions were used to prepare meals and serve twelve children who once lived not too far from this very homestead.

And if we made it there, you know, after the twelve-hundred mile trek to the top, we sucked the fresh air into our small lungs, counted our followers to make sure none were stuck in the mud somewhere, and proceeded to pretend…

…pretend that I was the mom and my only boy cousin at the time finally didn’t have to be dressed as a girl for once and got to be the dad and we were homesteaders who arrived by covered wagon and had staked our claim on this perfect spot after losing oxen and horses and my piano in a raging, roaring river (the flair for the dramatic runs in the family.)

And then it was time for a supper of clover bits and wild mushrooms and mud and rocks mixed together to form a lovely soup and after the meal we would proceed to plow the field and make pots out of the gumbo in the hills to sell in town and become rich.

We would carry on like this until someone would, indeed, pee their pants or find a cactus or fall down the hill and the little ones would need to be lugged home via piggyback. And when we finally made it home, we would rehash our adventures as the sun dropped down below the horizon and our eyes grew heavy.

See this homestead, this ranch, this vast landscape as you can imagine is home to millions of stories and ghosts of times spent breaking ground, building houses, having babies, losing mothers, purchasing the family’s first car and learning to drive, getting bucked off of new horses, harvesting the fields, and leaving blood, sweat and tears to soak into the ground and onto the backs of the animals that helped keep the place alive and machinery that did nothing but break down.

And the remains of these past lives, these generations spent struggling, loving, living and dying on this very landscape remain here not only in spirit, but also in the pieces left behind. The old cars that took their last drive to town have been drug to their designated graveyard to be used for parts on the replacement. The feed pickups that stranded my grandfather on evenings when the air hit thirty below and the sun had left hours ago accompany the cars and the tractors with faded red paint and threshing machines that resemble half sunken ships anchored in the rolling prairie waves.

As children we didn’t see these things as remains of a life lived hanging on to a place that struggled as much as it thrived, but as an infinite playground stretched out before us.

The old cars became ours as we imagined ourselves whizzing past wheat fields on our way to fancy parties in town. Sitting behind the wheel of the rusty feed trucks we were transported twenty years ahead where we ran our own operation and needed to stop for fuel, a cup of coffee and supplies at the local feed store.

The old threshing machine transported us to sea where my oldest cousin was the captain and we fought for first mate status as the wind whipped through our hair and the big storm threatened a capsize.

And when we were on safari, the augers were undiscovered dinosaurs that roamed the horizons of the ranch and were curious about these explorers on two legs.

Yes, this place with its hidden treasures just over the hill, helped transport us into the lives of adventurers, circus performers, escaped convicts, performers and people who sometimes possessed the same characteristics and dreams of our mothers and fathers.

And as I was walking around the homestead last week, looking for the perfect location to build our new house, these memories of childhood adventures on this place came rushing back to me as I passed each piece of worn out machinery and each old car. We have been making plans to remove this “junk” from the place, and to most people who drive by, that is exactly what it is. It’s old junk that has to go.

But as I ran my hands over the bodies of my grandmother’s car, overcome by rust and my grandfather’s feed pickup with his work gloves still sitting on the seat and old farm papers stuck in the visor, I tried to imagine what those people I once knew looked like sitting behind the wheel in the prime of their lives while their vehicle glistened under the prairie sun, polished and new. I imagined my grandmother sitting in the middle of the old International next to her young husband, laughing as they drove down the reservation road to the river for a day of fishing.

I thought of my dad, taking his first drive to town on his own to play with his band while thinking to himself, “This is the life. This is freedom.”

And I remembered my grandpa, driving his feed pickup through the cattle in the winter, making tracks in the freshly fallen snow, yelling, “Come boss…come boss!” Bouncing along the rough landscape, the chains from the bale loader clinking on body of the vehicle and he would reach up in his visor and, magically, pull down a stick of gum, or some cookies, or a bar of candy to offer to the small grandchild in a purple beanie and matching mittens sitting beside him.

And as I missed him and felt a longing for my childhood, I huffed as I noticed that pieces of my life growing up here had made it to this graveyard as well.

The old Dodge pickup that had taken me to my first high school rodeo sat lonely and sunken in a bed of weeds. I opened its doors and found one of my dad’s old caps and smiled as I thought of learning to drive stick shift in that beast.

I walked down to the shop to find my very first car, a redish-pinkish Ford LTD purchased from my uncle for $1,000. It sat lonely, still wearing the stickers I placed on the steering wheel, the ridiculous amount of key chains dangling from the ignition, remnants of my high school memories hanging from the rearview mirror—a reflection on the girl I used to be, the girl I was when this ridiculous looking car drove me off of the ranch and into a world filled with heartache and drama and love and loss and change.

Nostalgic now, I looked up to Pots and Pans.

I had to be there. I had to see if some things never change. I wanted to pick up the pieces of my childhood and be transported once again to a time and place where I could be anything and my favorite partners in crime did not live hundreds of miles away from me.

I didn’t take the time to pack my fruit rollups into my lunchbox, because somehow the hill didn’t look as far away, it didn’t look as daunting.

So I ran. I ran past the dinosaurs, the pirate ship and the old cars that had taken me through so many lives. I disregarded the cactuses as my strong adult legs propelled me to the top. And as I sucked the air into my lungs I frantically searched around to find my favorite pieces. Where was the butter churn? The flour sifter? The old jar we used to catch grasshoppers?

They were gone. Gone. Pushed down the hill into the trees and washouts by the snow and water that drifted in with the wind and weather that comes with time passed.

And as I sat there, holding on tight to the worn out pots that had survived the time, I sucked back tears as I thought of the innocence that existed and laughed and screamed with joy going up and down this hill.

Wiping the tears, I looked out over the landscape that my great-great grandfather declared home, where pieces of him and his family are scattered, and I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and restless with the responsibility of keeping this place here and alive for generations to come.

I took the air my ancestors once breathed into my lungs and closed my eyes to imagine my cousins running wildly through the grass…and their childish faces turned into the faces of their children…and their children’s faces turned into the faces of my unborn…

I opened my eyes, let loose the grip from the remains of Pots and Pans and let my feet carry me down from the peak of my childhood.

And when I reached the bottom, I turned around to look up at it—a sort of dramatic way of saying goodbye to the innocent life I once knew. And the hill looked back at me. It was no mountain, no daunting cliff or magnificent, looming piece of breathtaking landscape, nothing to make a postcard out of.

But in that moment, feet planted firmly in the place where my roots took hold and have refused to let go, I tilted my head back, put my hands on my hips and kicked the dirt in anticipation, because I knew I had found the view I wanted for the rest of my life.

A home under Pots and Pans.

Forever.

A lightning bolt and a cowgirl with a wedgie

Posted on October 7, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Not all days are picture perfect around here. No. Not all.

Because sometimes you’re a cowboy, and then other times, well…you’re a D-

…no matter the outfit.

See, I had a couple days of meetings in town, which helped fulfill the polished career woman that sometimes finds it necessary to make an appearance, but also resulted in lots of car time, computer time, time in high heals and dangly earrings, planning time, hand shaking time, question asking time and one instance of cold coffee being dumped down the back of my dress shirt (don’t ask). So by the time I got home today I was feeling a little pale and clean-cut and itching to put my big girl pants on and whoop it up on a good ‘ol fashioned round-up…you know…get western on the world.

It turns out I should have had supper first…

So after a change from fancy print to practical flannel, the guys and I saddled up and headed out on a mission to bring all of the cows home.

Yes, all the cows that were grazing so oblivious, so innocent, so peaceful in greenish-brownish pastures–all the girls, with their hefty teenagers trailing behind them, blissfully unaware of what was about to shake their world.

Because just like that, over the hill popped two calm, cool and collected cowboys and one cranky woman with a wedgie and an empty stomach on the back of a wild, red bolt of lightning full of burs and oat fueled energy—not as much cool and collected as hot and uptight.

And we got right to it. Or at least the men did. After we parted ways to move the unsuspecting cattle from each corner of the pasture, The Red Fury and I began to have our differences.

With hair as bad as his attitude...

Because I needed to go left and Lightning Bolt Full of Burs most certainly needed to go right—right back to the other horses who were concentrating less on socializing and more on the task at hand.

For those of you who have had any experience with horses with strong wills and a bit of a spoiled streak, you know the drill. The shrill whinny. The stomp of the feet. The head flail. The snort. The spin around. The side-pass. The crow-hop. The ear perk-up. And, of course, the dead calm that occurs right before they go through the hissy fit process all over again.

Yeah, I’ve been there many times. And even if you haven’t been there with a horse, I am sure you can relate anyway: think child without the cookie he really, really needs, your sister during a fight over closet space or your worst boss on his worst day.

Anyway, some days you’re up for the fight. Some days you don’t back down. Some days you laugh it off and slap ‘em on the ass (the horse, not your boss…or your sister I suppose) and move on with your life.

But then some days you just want to rip off your big girl pants and snort and stomp and flail along with them. Or at least light a cigarette (the fact that you do or do not smoke is not relevant in these situations)

Well, contrary to popular belief, the Marlboro Man doesn’t just pop on over the nearest butte around here. At least I haven’t seen him anyway. And out in the middle of this country, the work just has to get done, no matter the mood. No matter the stomach growl. No matter the urge for a martini and a Virginia Slim.

At least that is what I told The Red Fury. And after a pops prompted swat on the lightning bolt’s rump and a forced gallop up the nearest butte and back, the two pains of the pasture straightened up a bit.

When Red Fury accepted that I was just a bitch today (more than likely due to the tight pants and the wedgie) and I accepted that Red Fury was going to take me across the landscape with an attitude that resembled the biggest jock in high school, we were fine.

Just fine, ok.

Yes, we did indeed fall in line and the cows made their merry way up hills, across cricks, through the brush and to the sweet gates of home with the two of us finally working together for the greater good. And I was glad I had the sense to “cowboy up.”

But I was also a bit discouraged. Because these emotions, these frustrations, this uptight, scared to hit the ground, nervous and untrusting attitude I was exuding was not supposed to follow me out here. It was supposed to stay home on the pillow where I left it the night before when I couldn’t sleep because I was too busy counting my shortcomings. I was supposed to be something else out here…something resembling the scene from “The Man From Snowy River”—taking on the task with a bullwhip, a sweet hat and a passion. I was supposed to have confidence. I was supposed to have fearlessness. I was supposed to have skill and power and control out here in this wild space.

And instead I cowered a bit. I crumpled a bit. I gave in a bit. And the beast beneath me? Well, he knew what he was dealing with and it turns out that made him nervous. My attitude, my body language, my frustration revealed to him vulnerabilities and weaknesses that don’t work too well in the important and magical beast-and-master partnership. Because when this animal panicked, so did this human–and all trust was lost.

I guess what happens in real life does happen out here after all.

And you know what. That’s ok. Because not all days are picture perfect around here, or anywhere else for that matter. Sometimes you feel like crying and eating macaroni and cheese from the pot and you don’t want to have to explain it. Sometimes you stub your toe and run a red light and get a ticket and come home to a pile of dishes and you don’t feel like looking on the bright side.

Sometimes you spill coffee down the back of your nice clothes and have no idea how that happened and then you say the f-word. Loud.

Sometimes you just want to run like the wind and don’t want any bitch trying to stop you or trying to hold you up.

And sometimes you’re just hungry.

But no matter how dramatically you lose your nerve, the cows always find their way home–especially when calm and collected cowboys have your back.

Thanks for supper pops.

Thanks for the ride Lightning (and making me feel better about my bad hair day.)

And husband, thanks for loving your wife, even when she is a hungry crab with a wedgie.

Tremendous Tuesday’s “Love Your Life” Game

Posted on October 5, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

In the sometimes repetitive, dull or excruciatingly hectic ebb and flow of the work week it is easy to get wrapped up in the things that drive us crazy–the lack of milk in the fridge when all you want is cheerios, the driver that almost ran you off the road, the coffee that wasn’t in the pot when you needed it, because you dumped it on your new shoes, dogs that won’t listen and kids that won’t get up in the morning, or, you know, that alarm clock that never quite rings loud enough…

But this is Tuesday. Tremendous Tuesday. And as I sit here procrastinating the inevitable shower and the rummaging through my closet for town clothes and the getting-ready-to-get- off-the-ranch experience, I am mentally preparing myself for the day ahead, just like everyone does every morning. You run through the things you need to bring, the projects that need to get done, the groceries you need to pick up at the end of the day, the appointments you need to make.

Yes this is life in all its glory.

However, in light of Tremendous Tuesday, a day that generally isn’t so exciting until you add a great adjective, like tremendous, to the beginning, I want to hear from you. I want you to cut through the negative and make each other’s day by filling in this sentence, borrowed from one of my favorite bloggers…

“I love life, because life includes: ____________.”

Now, you don’t have to get fancy on me here. The blank can include anything from double chocolate cheesecake to the love of your life.

Here, I’ll go first.

“I love life because life includes: Fruity Pebbles (and I’m an adult now and can eat them whenever I want).”

Wow, that felt good. This is a great idea, thank you very much.

How ’bout some more?

“I love life because life includes:

This…