Country Kids on Bikes

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Listen to the podcast, where my husband recounts all of the ways getting hurt on his bike got him in trouble, and hear the kids’ version of this story…

“They both fell down the hill on their way to our house. They are fine, but both came over the hill sobbing…”

These are the sorts of texts I get from my sister when I send my kids over to play with their cousins. This time was different, however, because they begged to bring their bikes, and, well, you can deduce what happened from there. I knew I should have wrapped them in bubble wrap.

Being a country kid with a bike on these hilly, gravel roads makes for a different type of childhood, one that inevitably scars you for life on your elbows and knee caps and under your chin. Ask any kid raised rural and they will likely have a little piece of rock wedged permanently under their skin.

 

And my kids, they don’t really have a chance, there are only hills around here, the first one they have to climb just to get out of the yard. But they were determined to make the trek, failing to mention that Rosie, my five-year-old, can’t work the hand brakes on her new bike. Like, her hand won’t reach. Which explains why, at the downhill, dirt road cut across, Rosie got going too fast and (in her big sister’s words) faceplanted at the bottom. And then, in solidarity, or maybe more like panic, Edie decided not to move to avoid her, but to crash as well, lifting her chin to avoid the faceplant and managing only to run over the tips of her little sister’s finger (I’m paraphrasing here from the report I received when I got home).

My husband, who was working in the garage at the time, heard a side-by-side come down the road and turned around to find my little sister delivering two little dirt balls soaked in tears (and a little blood. Edie wants to make sure we all know there was blood.)

Oh man, if that isn’t going to become a core memory, nothing will. I have a similar one of my own from when I was about Edie’s age. My best friend and I decided to take her parents’ 1980s style skinny tired bikes with handlebar brakes and seats that were set too high for us a mile and a half to the neighbor’s. All went well on the flat highway, standing up to pedal the whole way, but the image of my friend gaining speed on the steep downhill stretch on the gravel road, topping out at 75 MPH before those skinny tires slipped out from under her and sent her little body scrape-bouncing across the rocks, still haunts my dreams.

Yes, the rite of passage of summer kids riding bikes with friends on quiet suburban streets hits different out at the ranch, just like most things. Like make sure you wear shoes to the playground in back because the Canadian thistle is bad this year. And watch out for cow pies, they got in the yard again last night. Wear shorts at your own risk when you’re climbing that rock hill. Check for ticks when you come inside. Make sure you put the frogs back in the dam when you’re done with them.

Quit bringing pet grasshoppers in the house. Watch for snakes.

Test your brakes…

“That bike ride was traumatic” I texted my sister last night before bed after administering an ice pack to Edie’s wrist.

“I bet Edie still hasn’t recovered,” she texted back. “They were covered in dust from head to toe!”

“You should have seen the bathtub!” I replied.

Happy mid-July. If you need me I’ll be administering band-aids and bug spray.

Cousins by the camper

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Cousins by the camper
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Listen to the podcast here

There’s a family photo that resurfaces every once in a while of six little kids with fluffy ‘90s hair sitting on a picnic bench in front of a 1980s tin-sided bumper pull camper. One of us is in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, a couple in tight rolled jeans, all of us had bangs that started in the middle of our craniums. It was summer in North Dakota on the edge of the clay shores of Lake Sakakawea and we were squinting against the morning sun, a calm moment captured between itching mosquito bites and slapping horse flies away. A calm moment captured before a picnic of watermelon and juice boxes and hotdogs cooked on my uncle’s tiny grill. A calm moment captured before we became who we really were in that fuzzy photograph—cousins, grandchildren of Pete and Edith Veeder, connected by blood and big love and orange push-up pops and a ranch with a pink road that runs right through. Cousins reunited for a weekend of camping under a fussy North Dakota sky where it’s always a little too cold for swimming with a good chance of a camper-shaking thunderstorm.

Those six kids are all grown up now and so are the two who were too wiggly to sit still for the photo, some of us raising fluffy haired kids of our own. And this summer, for many different reasons, I will have seen every one of my cousins in person, on both sides of my family, in the matter of a few months. This very likely hasn’t happened since we were kids and it’s been an unexpected blessing in this season that is rolling in and out of my life as quickly as one of those thunderstorms.

I watch my daughters take the road that cuts between my house and my sister’s on their way to play because they can hardly stand a day without seeing one another. Now that they are old enough, they take that road themselves. And when I tag along, they leave me in the dust, holding hands and pulling tight on that thread that binds me to them, stretching it out to reach the people they need beyond me. What I would have given to have lived right down the road from my cousins.

I watch these girls run toward one another and I can’t help but wonder how these relationships will continue and evolve through the years, as sisters and cousins and friends. Their innocence presently has us all fooled into thinking that it could last forever, that they will eternally be bonded in this same tender and intricate way. But years have shown me enough scenarios in which it can all quietly or not so quietly fade or crumble or implode because humans are complicated, and our hearts are tender, and time is a thief. Sometimes my sister and I let ourselves imagine our daughters as teenagers fighting over boyfriends or driving themselves to town for a rodeo or a football game. We think my youngest, Rosie, will insist on driving and then we think she’ll drive too fast. And Edie, my oldest, will try to keep them in line but Emma, my youngest niece will take Rosie’s back. And Ada, the animal lover, might prefer to stay home with the horses, but could be convinced to break any rule because Rosie and Emma plead a good case. Oh it’s fun to imagine but not without wondering how they could ever be anything but here safe at the ranch at 3 and  5 and 6 and 7, in the sweet spot of sprinkler running and Bible Camp songs and endless game of babies in our basement.

Is that what our parents thought that day they asked us to sit shoulder to shoulder on the picnic bench? That if they pointed that camera and developed that film that it would help them remember this fleeting moment where we were together and sun kissed and smiling, before we knew that growing up could simultaneously ache and excite us. Before that thread pulled tight on us across the countryside as we wandered off to find out who we were supposed to be beyond the grass-stained knees of those tight-rolled jeans. I know it is. And then I wonder if they knew that it was because they believed in that pink road and that picnic table bench and family camping trips and Christmas suppers and Easter egg hunts at gramma’s that even now, after all these years, we do what it takes to have the chance to be who we really are, who we’ve always been, Pete and Edith’s grandchildren, squeezing in to say cheese.  

Ready for the fair

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We’re getting packed up this morning to head to the Minnesota Lake for our 4th of July traditions. I’ve been so busy with family and getting work squared away that I’m late on sharing and late with the podcast. We’ll see if Chad and I get a chance to sit down and catch up over coffee once we get there. I’ve only seen him in passing recently, and last night over steaks playing “would you rather” with the girls…

The girls had another little rodeo in town on Thursday, and so we caught up in the pickup after he met us in town and took us home. But not before I convinced everyone we needed burgers and ice cream. I like a treat after I survive the stress of a thousand little kids running around on horses in 80 degree weather. I’m the mom yelling ‘careful!’ as if kids even know what careful is. They all did great. Slow and steady and learning. These old horses are earning their halos, and so the most fun part continues to be riding them around the rodeo grounds with their best friends.

Anyway, I better get myself ready so we get to the lake before sunset! Enjoy this week’s column about a memory tied to my favorite old horse.

Ready for the Fair

County fairs are in full swing across the state, and that means 4-H families are kicking it in high gear, putting the final varnish on the woodworking project or staying up late to get the quilt done, wondering why they’ve committed to 12 projects plus a pig and a steer when they also have family visiting and hay to put up.

Our county fair has come and gone, taking with it all the nostalgia, new memories and lessons you can pack into three days. This year, our McKenzie County Fair took place at brand-new fairgrounds in a brand-new facility, so the 4-H kids got to skip the part where they spent an entire day weed eating around the bunny barn, and scraping and repainting the livestock pens. This year, and for years to come, our kids will be showing their goats and cookie bars in air conditioning under a solid roof that doesn’t leak in a steel building that won’t need fresh paint, leaving us to say, “kids these days don’t know how good they have it.”

Edie with her Cloverbud projects

My oldest daughter, Edie, took her drawing, sewing and fairy garden projects to town to receive rainbow ribbons as a Cloverbud, while my little sister and I sat behind judges’ tables and interviewed our community kids about their photography projects. Her 6-year-old daughter, Ada, brought in chocolate chip cookies, dressed in her white shirt and nicest jeans. Her very first 4-H experience had her sitting and nibbling cookies with the Cloverbud judge who was handing out those rainbow ribbons like gold, never having to think about how a red ribbon might crush a 4-H dream, no matter that the bean plant was broken and taped back together. No matter that the crocus was a bit out of focus. My little sister and I craned our necks to try to hear how she answered the questions.

“What was the hardest part about this project?”

“Cracking the eggs,” little Ada said between bites, then off she went with her grandma and cousins to check out the big turkeys in the pens and read all the names on the rabbit cages. Next year, mark my words, that little girl will be showing a chicken. She’s an animal girl, and 4-H was made for animal girls.

This reminds me of a photo that I dig out of the archives during this time of year. It’s a gem of a snapshot of me, at about 11 years old, my crisp white button-up tucked into my Wrangler jeans, my straw hat pulled down as close to my eyes as possible. I’m holding tight to my red mare’s lead rope with my little sister, about 6 years old, standing beside me. We were both looking too serious for the occasion, but then again, it was a serious occasion. It was 4-H horse show day, and we were fresh off the ranch — where we likely spent the evening before washing my old horse, Rindy, in the backyard with Mane and Tail shampoo, a brush and a hose spraying freezing cold water.

I would have put on my shorts and boots and worked to convince my little sister to hold Rindy’s halter rope while the horse was busy munching on as much lush, green grass as she could. My little sister, enthused initially, likely started to get annoyed by the whole deal, the sun a little too hot on her already rosy cheeks, the bees getting dangerously close. She probably abandoned ship after a couple arguments about it, and then I would have been out there finishing the job, picking off the packed-on dirt and yellow fly eggs horses get on their legs up in these parts. I’d stand back, pleased with the work I did and excited to show my horse in the big arena and ride her in the parade, thinking she never looked so good, her red coat glistening in the sun.

Then, I likely took her down to the barnyard to give her a munch of grain, telling her I’d see her in the morning before walking back up the road, reciting in my head all the parts of a horse I could remember in case I was asked. I hated to be caught off guard not knowing horse things.

Overnight, while I tossed and turned, it likely rained, soaking the ground just enough to make the barnyard muddy. I would have woken up bright and early with a nervous tummy, pulled my fuzzy hair in a low ponytail and tucked that white shirt into the blue boy cut Wrangler jeans dad picked up for me at the Cenex, the uniform of a champion. I would have eaten a few bites of cereal at the counter because mom insisted and then headed to the barn trailing behind my dad, my little sister at my heels, ready to retrieve my glistening horse and get her and her fancy halter loaded up in the trailer, only to find that she had taken advantage of the mud the rain produced, rolling in it thoroughly, letting the clay form a thick crust on her back.

Maybe this scenario is the reason for our serious expressions in that picture. Or maybe I was just nervous. But it looks like we got it worked out, because dang, we look good, all of us, especially that mare, all polished up and — despite the trials it took to get us there — ready for the fair.

Rescue Mission

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Listen to the poddcast here or on Spotify or Apple Podcasts

My three-year niece, Emma has a bird book. She stands on the couch in the living room and looks out the window with that book in her chubby little hands and marks the ones she sees. It’s adorable, and that kid doesn’t miss a beat. She’s looking up at the sky whenever she can.

The other day I was walking with all the girls, my two daughters, who are five and seven, and Emma and her sister Ada, who is also five and probably loves animals the most of any kid I’ve ever met. Like, she has a gift with them, truly. Now bear with me here, this all matters because as we approached my house I noticed Emma stop dead in her tracks to stare intently at something way up in a tall tree by the road. When I caught up to her I looked up too and realized that what had her attention was a bird, about twenty feet up in an ash tree, flapping and panicked, trying to escape the small piece of twine that had somehow wrapped around its leg and attached him to a small branch. I later learned it was a cedar waxwing, which explained why other cedar waxwings would occasionally fly in to check on it, wondering why it couldn’t join the flock.

It was heartbreaking to watch, and even more heartbreaking to watch these four little girls discover the bird’s misery. Edie, my oldest, looked at me with urgency and, of course said, “We have to help it! Hurry!” Which is exactly what would have been going through my mind as a 7 year old, and, actually, it was going through my mind as a mom then too, but with a little more apprehension because I was home by myself and I’m afraid of heights and, frankly, a little unnerved by flapping birds. Also, so many things could go wrong in this situation if I actually figured out a way to get up there. Like I wouldn’t make it in time for one, or if I did, the bird might be gravely injured. Or, maybe of more concern, I could be gravely injured, I mean, I don’t have a great track record with ladders.

Anyway, if you’ve ever been in an urgent situation where four innocent and sweet little animal-loving girls are looking to you to SAVE A LITERAL LIFE, you can’t blame me for trying to do something. So they told me they’d keep watch while I ran to the house and got the ladder…and the pickup… because my plan was to, you guessed it, back the pickup up to the tree, put the ladder in the box, climb up there with my scissors and bibbidi bobbidi boo, release the wax wing like a Disney Princess Superhero.

But first I needed to call my sister to hold the ladder, grab me those gloves, and, in case it all went south, divert the attention and call the ambulance. Only a sister would come tearing in the yard in minutes flat after only being told, “there is a bird situation here.”

Turns out, once I got the ladder in the back of the pickup and got to the third rung, I also needed her to give me a pep talk. “If you’re going to do this, you just gotta commit” she said handing me the scissors and then wrapping a tight grip on my leg because even though we both knew that wasn’t going to keep me from falling to a bloody death in the name of a tiny bird, it made us both feel better. Oh, and also she needed to call off the dogs that suddenly came to investigate, both of us imaging that unfortunate scenario.

Anyway, if these girls ever say I never did anything for them, I’m documenting it now in this publication that me,  their mother, who is indeed truly afraid of heights, backed our pickup up to that tall tree, placed the ladder in the bed, climbed it, pulled the branch attached to the bird down to my level and detached it, untangled the tiny little bird leg from the twine and didn’t scream once (or at least not too loud) in front of my audience of little girls. In fact, I held that bird long enough for all of them to get a quick, closer look and then let it go, off safe and sound into the trees.

And then I sopped the sweat from my face and calmed my shaky legs and we all went on with our weird, wonderful little lives feeling good about the one we all saved. And Emma marked Cedar Waxwing in her bird book.

It’s summer now

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It’s summer now and the days are long, the sun moving slowly across the sky and hanging at the edge of the earth for stretched out moments, giving us a chance to put our hands on our hips and say “what a perfect night.”

It’s summer now and before dark officially falls we ride to the hilltops and then down through the cool draws where the shade and the grass and the creek bed always keep a cool spot for us.

Because it’s summer now and things are warming up. The leaves are out and so are the wildflowers, stretching and blooming and taking in the fleeting weather. It’s summer so we pick a handful of wild yellow daisies and purple lady slippers and paintbrushes and sweet clover for the mason jar on our windowsill and we know these aren’t their proper names but that’s what our grandparents called them so that’s what they are to us.

It’s summer now and the cows are home and so is my husband, home before the sun sets. Home to get on a horse and ride fence lines.

It’s summer now and the dogs’ tongues hang out while they make their way to the spot of shade on the gravel where the truck is parked. They are panting. They are smiling. They just got in from a swim.

Because it’s summer now and the water where the slick-backed horses drink, twitching and swiping their tails at flies, is warm and rippling behind the oars of the water bugs, the paddle of duck’s feet, the leap of a frog and the dunk of a beaver’s escape.

It’s summer and the kids are throwing rocks in that water and watching for those frogs. It’s summer and their knees are scraped and their cheeks are rosy and the hair that’s turning blonde in the sun is forming ringlets around their faces poking up out t-ball jerseys and mismatched swimsuits and tank tops smeared in dirt and sidewalk chalk and orange popsicle juice and bug spray.

And it’s summer now and we keep the windows open so even when we’re inside we’re not really inside.

We can’t be inside.

Because it’s summer now and there’s work to be done. We say this as we stand leaning up against a fence post, thinking maybe if we finish the chores we could squeeze in time for fishing.

Because it’s summer and we heard they’re biting.

Yes, it’s summer and we should mow the grass before the clouds bring the thunderstorm that will wake us in the early morning hours of the next day. And it’s summer so we will lay there with those windows open listening to it roll and crack, feeling how the electricity makes our hearts thump and the air damp on our skin. Maybe we will sleep again, maybe we’ll rise to stand by the window and watch the lightning strike and wonder where this beautiful and mysterious season comes from.

And why, like the storm, it’s always just passing through.

Mason Jar Ice Cream
Summer calls for ice cream, and, if you ask for summer memories out on the farm or ranch, so many of them are attached to the act of not only eating, but making ice cream. Back before everyone had a deep freezer, ice was chipped from the river or the low spots on the prairie and used to make the sweet treat. These days, even with the Schwan’s man at our service, there’s nostalgia attached to the process

In a mason jar with a lid add:
1 cup heavy whipping cream

1 tsp vanilla

Dash of salt

1 tbsp sugar
Add sprinkles and a couple drops of food coloring to make it festive

Screw on lid and shake for five minutes. Freeze for three hours.

Other people’s stories

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This week on the podcast I catch up with Chad and wonder what it says about my mothering when Rosie describes moms as “struggling.” Seriously. Listen here or wherever you get your podcasts.

Sometimes my job as a writer brings me to stories I am not looking for, but grateful to have found.

A few years back I visited a small town in the center of the state. In the middle of freshly planted corn fields and along the railroad tracks cattle grazed, a construction crew pounded nails into a new roof on a sleepy Main Street building and a group of community members gathered in a small diner, opened especially for my visit to learn about their town.

We sat around a rectangle table on diner chairs in the back of the restaurant. The room was full of local men and women who were there to talk about dairy farming and population decreases, rural living and 4-H programs, the weather and how kids these days don’t understand that chickens don’t have nuggets.

I wrote down their names and got snippets of their stories: the retired school teacher, the cook, the woman from Wisconsin, the fifth generation dairy farmer. And then I thanked them for their time as they dispersed after our visit to the t-ball game down the road, to check the cattle, to cook dinner or lead a 4-H group.

But as I was rushing toward the door, checking my watch and calculating what time I would land in bed if I left now and stopped quickly at the grocery store in the big town along the way, I heard a voice say, “And one more thing…”

I turned around to find that voice attached to a man in a clean pressed shirt and suspenders, holding his white feed store hat with green trim in front of him as he spoke. It was the man who sat across from me during our interview. The man with kind eyes and the daughter who was a dairy farmer.

He had something more to tell me.

And this is what it was:

My first train ride out of here was when I was nineteen. Boy was that a ride! You hear how the train moves along the tracks, squeaking and bumping along? That’s how it was on the inside, riding along like that for days.
In those days the train came through here often to pick up passengers. It took me to the service.
The Korean War.

I anticipated his next thought and he caught me off guard when I noticed a bit of a sparkle in his eyes. He gripped his cap a little tighter. I leaned in.

He smiled broad and looked young as he told me…

I was lucky. They sent me to Germany and, well, my family is German. It was my second language. So boy did I have a time! I think I wore out my first pair of boots dancing.
I was a cook see, and in the evenings I would go out and, well, the girls, they asked you to dance. They did! 

I was a little nervous at first, being there with all their men sitting along the bar. I asked them if they were sure, if there would be trouble, but they said go ahead and dance.
They wanted to sit and drink, see. The girls wanted to dance!  And I was young and fit and I would dance.

I was lost there in that memory with him. I wanted to be those girls, I wanted him to show me his dance steps. I wanted to know him when he was a young man finding reprieve from a cruel world in the music.

Oh, I just I loved it. I would dance all night. 

With that he pulled his cap down over his gray hair.  I thanked him for the story and he thanked me for the time.  He held the door open for me and walked me to my car parked next to those railroad tracks, the steel lines disappearing in the distance a constant memory of the young man who took the train out of North Dakota and came home with boots worn from dancing.

My grandma, she could float

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This week we said goodbye to my grandma Ginny, my mom’s mother, in a little lake town in Minnesota.

It’s easy to look back at what I knew of this woman and be proud to have called her my grandmother. And for a few days we spent time with family in her and grampa’s cabin on the shores of Lake Melissa. And it seemed she ordered the weather up just for us, so our kids could jump in its cool, clear waters and pull up fish after fish after little sun fish. She was smiling down for sure.

Due to the crazy travel schedule, watch for the podcast to be published tomorrow.

My grandma, she could float
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There are things about people you remember when they’ve left this world and it’s never what you think will stick with you when you’re mourning their death at their funeral or writing an obituary or a note of condolence.

I want to say something profound here today about my grandmother Virginia Blain, who died peacefully in her bed last week in a little lake town in Minnesota at 89 years old. I want to tell you about a woman who grew up as a baker’s daughter and married and nurtured the love of her life for nearly 70 years. I want to tell you how she built a professional career in the 1950s, kept her own checking account and raised four smart and independent daughters. I want to tell you how she swam in lakes and oceans around the world and planted hundreds of flower gardens and read a thousand books and played a million games of bridge before time made her mind betray her, slowly taking her away from the people who love her, in this life, where she will be dearly missed…

But all I can think about right now is how she could float. My grandmother, who was an accomplished Girls Scout and a lifeguard and a strong swimmer who spent her long life on the shores of Minnesota lakes, would walk out into the water and just let it hold her up as she smiled under her straw hat and splashed her grandkids with the hands she didn’t need to use to keep her head above water. And we would all try it then as we watched her, our skinny, pale, Midwestern bodies flailing, our cheeks puffed out as we held our breath and sunk under the water while she laughed.

“Ginny was a happy person,” that’s what my grandfather wrote at the end of her obituary and I can’t stop crying over it and I’m not sure why. After all the things that she was, that line reaches inside me and stirs it all up.

Because it’s true. In fact, she might have been the definition of it, even in the most challenging times in her life. She dealt with doubt or loneliness by organizing a card game or hosting a party or getting to work. When her husband’s military career took her from the familiar sidewalks of her North Dakota home to Japan in the infancy of marriage and new motherhood, she called it an adventure and took a flower arranging class and for the rest of her summers there was never an empty flowerbed or bud vase in sight.

To be loved by a person like my grandma Ginny is to feel like she created her sunshine just to have you stand in it and warm up. She had a way of making it all special. I wanted to make sure I said that because it’s true. Serving pretzels? She’d put them in a pretty dish with sour cream and garlic salt for dipping. She’d wrap the son-in-laws’ Christmas socks in a nice box with tissue paper and a curled bow, making Hanes look luxurious. She’d mix salted peanuts with M&Ms and make sure the glass bowl was always full for company. She’d make a game of waiting in line. She put a cherry in the vodka tonic. She put the music on for supper. She made plans for breakfast in bed, then made sure he made plans to reciprocate. She’d have you circle your favorite things in every catalog. She’d tell him he’s handsome. She’d tell everyone he’s handsome.

To my grandma, life was a game that she genuinely wanted to play, and she wanted you to play with her.

When you’re loved by someone like her, you want to make her proud. That alone is the greatest gift she could have left us with.

My grandma was hydrangeas in the garden and a sailboat ride with her husband. She was a good book in the lawn chair in the shade by the lake and a cold washcloth on your forehead when there was nothing else she could do. She was a big laugh, a game of Tripoly and leave the dishes for later. My grandma was lumpy mashed potatoes and mediocre Salisbury steak that tasted better than it was because she made no apologies and it wasn’t about the food anyway. She was licorice in the candy drawer and doughnut holes from the bakery and fishing with gummy worms off the dock. And my grandma, she was happy.

My grandma, she could float..

Colors of the season

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On the podcast this week I visit with both my daughters on what it means to be a cowgirl and how it went at their first rodeo. Listen here or wherever you get your podcasts.

This morning the new calves were frolicking, bucking and kicking up their wobbly legs outside my window as the sun began to rise magenta pink on the cusp of the hill. The grass is neon green and I thought then that those colors of the morning sky and that green and the shine of the black on the backs of those calves were all my favorite colors.

This week Rosie, my youngest, graduates from preschool. They give her a little graduation cap and everything. She’ll wear her new dress and sing songs she’s been practicing for a month alongside her cousin. A few days ago my sister and I took our five-year-olds to kindergarten orientation. As the our daughters held hands and skipped around the school behind the teachers at the front of the line, brave and excited together, my sister, who is five years younger than me, whispered, “Did you ever think we would have kids going to school at the same time?”

“No,” I replied. “I guess this is how it was always supposed to be.”

This season change from white to brown to bright is following this little season change in my life. We will play through the summer and then both of my daughters will be in school—a kindergartener and a second grader. If my husband and I would have come into parenthood without ten years of heartbreak and loss, we would be long past this elementary school part, with a teenager practicing to take the drivers test. Our kids would be babysitting my little sister’s kids if we had control of the timing of any of it. If we wouldn’t have suffered loss after loss…

And you couldn’t have convinced me at the time that it would all work out the way it has. The heartbreak of infertility and miscarriage is a weight that sometimes pulls the heaviest when you’re trying your best to stay positive. There were years I gave up on the idea of parenthood entirely. There were years the pain made me avoid the subject.

Yesterday my sister, husband and I took all the girls (aged three, five, five and seven just so you can get the complete picture here) to practice riding horses and to get ready for their first little rodeo in town at the end of the week. The older girls were working on navigating their horses around the barrel pattern. With old horses fresh off of a lazy winter that know the grain bucket’s at the barn, it takes a bit of coaxing and skill to get them to take these little bodies on their backs seriously. It can be frustrating for a perfectionist like my seven-year-old and she wasn’t handling it well. And I haven’t read a parenting book that addresses the specific issue of teaching your kids to be calm and patient on the back of an old, stubborn horse, and so I wasn’t handling it well either.

An animal will test all the things that need testing in you, and so after we put horses away and loaded up to go home, I turned to my daughter and reminded her that she’s a cowgirl. And then out of my mouth came a list for her, a little guideline that I thought my rule-follower could appreciate:

A cowgirl is kind. A cowgirl encourages others. A cowgirl stays calm in tough situations. A cowgirl doesn’t give up. A cowgirl tries her best.

We both repeated it. And then so did Rosie.

And I don’t know exactly what I’m trying to say here except I wanted to acknowledge that there are many ways a life can turn out, even if it isn’t the way you planned it. And I can’t say it would be better or it would be worse because the ‘what ifs’ don’t have answers. But I do know that all the mistakes and lessons and heartbreaks and little victories live inside you. And they’re there for you to tap into when you need them. And maybe that’s how you show gratitude for the things you thought might break you, or maybe that’s simply the definition of gratitude itself.

And maybe my favorite color is the color of every sunrise, in every season, reminding us of another chance at a new day.

On Nashville

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This week on the podcast I catch Chad up on the Nashville trip and the recoding process. Listen here or wherever you get your podcasts

“Live in THIS moment.”

That’s what my fortune cookie said as I finished my takeout dinner in a hotel near downtown Nashville.

“Ok, cookie,” I said out loud to myself as I laid it on the desk next to my planner and pages of typed up lyrics scribbled with notes. These songs I’ve been writing and re-writing for the past eight years were all just stacked up there waiting for the next morning to go into the studio and come to life in the hands of some of the best players in the neighborhood.

The amazing session players and producer in OmniSound Studios downtown Nashville

If you would have asked the sixteen-year-old version of me what most intimidated me as a young woman pursuing some sort of music career, I would have told you it was this. This exact situation. Bringing songs I wrote on the floor of my bedroom in the middle of nowhere to sit before musicians who are truly professional and have seen it all. Surly my songs about the hard clay of home and hard people who live there wouldn’t resonate. Surly they would laugh me right on back to where I came from.

Me and Wanda, master of the dobro, fiddle, banjo, guitar and more!

I faced my fear of Nashville with my last original album in 2015. I was a grown woman by then and had done plenty of things that scared me, so I hopped a plane, figuring all I had to lose was the money. And though I had no real idea of what to expect, I was greeted by an experience in the studio that was so open and encouraging that it successfully rearranged my view of what it can mean to make music.

Nashville Songwriter Kirsti Manna and producer Bill Warner. Kirsti wrote Blake Shelton’s hit song “Austin” among others.

I’m sure you wont be surprised to hear it’s about the people. And in this business there is plenty of competitive drive and ambition that can make things ugly, but I had long stripped away any ideas of fame and fortune by the time I stepped into a Nashville studio for the first time. I just wanted to make the best songs I could possibly make and so did every person in that room with me. And that’s it. That’s all it’s about.

Listening to my rough tracks

This time I flew into Nasvhille on the tail end of a storm that was lighting and thunder and rain and the migration of Taylor Swift fans to music city for her concerts. As the rain and the superstar and the fans left music city, I made my way to a studio on music row and stood under the same roof she once had, and so did Janis Ian and Alison Krauss and Faith Hill and Miranda Lambert and on and on and on the famous names lined the walls and it wasn’t fancy but it was friendly and for the record I’m the only one name-dropping here

And in came the bass player and his big upright and the drummer who sits perfect in the pockets of songs and the sweetest guitar player and a woman named Wanda who can play every stringed instrument you can name and so began our day together, working through the notes of the twelve songs I brought from North Dakota prairie.

If you’re curious about the process, in short I hire a producer, who rents out a studio and hires session players. That producer charts the arrangements for the songs and gathers us all up for a day (or more) of laying the groundwork for each track. In both my experiences, we tracked the entire album, twelve songs in one ten-hour day. That means these musicians often only heard the rough-cut demo of each song once, which is typically five minutes before recording, and then they get to work. My role is to listen, sing my parts and make sure it all goes in the direction I had in my head. But every time, it goes above and beyond. The next day all those musicians were likely scheduled to work on entirely separate projects in different studios with different producers across town and I’ll stay for the rest of the week to work on tracking vocals.

And that’s the just the beginning. Over the course of the year I’ll schedule release dates and concerts and find my favorites and your favorites and make videos and tell stories like I always do, and see where it all goes. But for now as I write this, sipping coffee from a paper hotel cup, I’m just here facing those teenage fears and living in THIS moment.

Honoring the women who made me who I am

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Greetings from Nashville where I’m deep in the woods of recording an album. I’ve been here since early Sunday morning (like 4:30 in the morning) where I blew in on the back of a major thunderstorm and will be working out these songs until the end of the week.

I’ll share more about this experience, but for now I’m focused on the project and will be tracking vocals all day for the next few days.

In other music news, it has been a busy couple weeks of performances where I’ve had the honor of speaking to rooms full of women across the state as they celebrate Mother’s Day and spring and just good ‘ol fashioned fellowship at a variety of brunches, all so sweetly planned and executed.

So that’s what this week’s column is about, specifically about my hometown event where I was overcome with emotion and gratitude looking out at the room full of women who have had such special impacts on our community.

No podcast for this week as I’m not sure I’ll be able to fit it in, but I’ll sure have lots to talk about when I get back. Also, I heard Edie wrote me a note to read when I get back home and it says something like “Never ever ever ever leave me again!” so now you know how she feels about this situation. Rosie? Well, she’s had some really great days and mostly just wants to know what I had for supper and also if i am going to get her a treat while I’m here.

To which I say “of course!”

Honoring the women who made me who I am

Recently, I had the honor of sharing stories and singing for the Lutheran Ladies in my hometown at their annual Sunday brunch. They were celebrating this sunny spring afternoon with tiny cucumber and egg salad sandwiches, homemade mints, and a tea bar. Each table was decorated and set by different women who stood up to introduce their guests and explain the stories behind the centerpieces and dishes, silverware and place settings.

I had come off a week that sent me back and forth across the state to speak and sing in front of rooms full of people I had yet to meet, and I was, if I’m being honest, exhausted. I got ready that morning with a little apprehension. Truthfully, performing to a room full of people you know is sometimes the most nerve-wracking. I wondered if I had anything to say that they hadn’t already heard.

My mom, little sister and I were invited to sit at our neighbor Jan’s table decorated with her childhood cowboy boots, a vintage lunchbox, and themed around her grandmother’s colorful old ceramic pitcher.

This woman was raised right alongside my dad. Her mother, who was at the table as well, was my grandma Edie’s best friend. Sitting next to her was the grandmother of one of my best friends. Next to me was Jan’s daughter, who used to come to play at the ranch in her beautiful pink boots of which I was so envious.

I’m setting this scene here for a purpose, and I’ll take a moment to explain, as it took a moment for me to realize the significance as I stood up in front of those women that afternoon, behind my guitar talking about the crocuses blooming on the hilltops and holding my grandmother’s hand on a hunt to pick a perfect bouquet.

I told them a story about my great-grandmother Cornelia’s yellow roses that still bloom in the barnyard. Then I moved on to a bit about community and how our role is to help build it, like my great-grandma Gudrun — an immigrant from Norway, just 16 years old on her way across the ocean to raise crops and cattle and 12 children on this unforgiving landscape — did.

It was then that I realized, looking into those familiar faces looking back at me smiling and laughing, or closing their eyes and nodding along, rooting for me, quietly encouraging me, that the lessons I was offering that afternoon were lessons I learned from them.

As is my motto, I felt like I had to say something then. It sort of washed over me, and out of my mouth came an effort to thank them, not just for their collective spirit, but for what their perseverance and individuality has meant to this community and to girls like me trying to figure out what it means to grow up here.

I got home that evening and had a chance to reflect a bit on the fact that there was more I wished I could have articulated, so I want to say it now.

These women, they are leaders and caretakers. They show up, they bring food, they stay to put away the chairs and wipe the counters and offer a laugh or advice on the way out the door. They have vision, they’re loyal, they’re feisty, they’re elegant and artistic, just like the event they put on that afternoon. They’re teachers, coaches, handywomen and true friends who will say what needs to be said and who hold secret recipes to casseroles and bars and that boozy slush she serves every Easter.

When I tell stories and sing songs about strong women in North Dakota, I am singing about them. And their mothers. And the daughters they’re raising. I grew up in this small town under their gaze, under their care, under their expectations, or I was raised alongside them, or I am getting to know them, happy they’re here.

Some of them wash and put away the dishes, some of them stop at Jack and Jill for the doughnuts, and some of them make tiny sandwiches and homemade mints and bring the good dishes. You would think those things are small things, but I will tell you now that they are not.

They are big things, rooted in the unspoken rule that you show up the best possible way that you can. And if you can’t, they’ll wrap a plate up for you. If you forget for a moment what you’re made of, if you let them, if you listen, they will remind you.