There’s nothing wilder…

Posted on August 19, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

There is something about a girl and a horse.

Yeah, boys have their toys with wheels, their guns, their tools, their dogs and they look noble and masculine (and a bit like a western movie if they’ve got the outfit right) on the back of the beautiful beasts….

But it’s not the same.

I was reminded of this phenomenon this week when my twelve-year-old cousin from The Cities (yeah, we’re in Western ND, so even though Minneapolis/St. Paul is an excruciating 600 plus miles to the east, those are our cities ok…) came to visit the ranch for the first time (without her two brothers). My cousin is a fiery, sweet, smart redhead who has spent much of her childhood on the pavement giving all of that animal loving heart to her declawed cat who moves, like city cats do, throughout their beautiful home from sunny spot to sunny spot until he is let loose in the night to lurk through the neighborhood, exercising his wild side.

I love this girl and have spent time with her when she was younger, but never, I realized, one on one. So I admit I was a little nervous to have her out to this wild place, so far removed from the Super Target that is located down the street from her house, so far from the structured entertainment and the embracing neighborhood full of friends and swimming pools and a bike rides and movie theatres at your fingertips. I was worried she would be bored. I was worried she was going to miss her friends. I was worried that the things I liked to do when I was twelve (and let’s just admit it here, still do) would not appeal to her. And to top off the unexpected anxiety, it occurred to me that this pre-teen might never survive without cell service!

OMG!

So the plans I made to walk through the creek beds and pick wild berries and go fishing in the big lake and ride bike were on a list right next to the back-up plans of movies and swimming pools and manicures…you know, just in case.

But sweet Red was not nervous at all. Red packed her bags diligently in her room in the suburb of Minneapolis at the end of her summer with sweet adventure in her sight. She was on a quiet mission as she endured bravely the ten hour trip out west in a car with nothing on her mind but exploring every inch of this place on the back of a horse.

As soon as the car pulled through the breaks of the badlands and down into the valley of my parent’s home, Red stepped out and sucked in the fresh air and immediately buried her face in the necks of the two dogs rushing, tails wagging, coming to greet her. I’ve never seen a smile that genuine. I’ve never seen a heart open that wide.

And in that moment it was quite clear that this girl, with the freckles and the blue eyes and the beautiful, straight, long red hair–a girl so far away from me in miles and looks and lifestyle and years, did indeed share the same blood.

I should not have been surprised. I should not have doubted this wonderful, curious, adventurous child. With the perfectly placed ponytails and the cowboy hat and boots I lent her she even reminded me of Annie Oakley!

So I took this as my cue and I shredded my backup list and made plans to check off everything on the first one—the real one.

We had two days.

So we scoured the hills for chokecherries and plums, got her shoes muddy in the black mud of the crick (“do you say creek or crick?” “Well, I guess we say crick around here…”), threw the stick for the dogs to fetch and caught a frog. And because she is a Minnesota girl, I thought she should see a lake completely different than those in her backyard. So down the road we went to big, rugged, untamed Lake Sakakawea to fish for walleye against the clay cliffs that border the shore. And damn if Red didn’t catch the only fish. Big Fish.

Oh, her brothers would be jealous.

She swam with the lab in the cool North Dakota lake, she shot a Pabst can right off of the fence post with the .22, she rode the 4-wheeler, she tamed the wild cat, she sat out in the yard with the four dogs as the sun went down on what I hoped was a day of her dreams…

And she rode horse.

And If ever there was a moment that needed to occur in the life of a twelve year old girl—a moment that makes all of the annoying troubles of the world disappear (like puberty and high-water pants and friends who betray you and parents who just don’t understand), a moment where complete innocence and trust and hope appears again in the eyes of a girl on the verge of womanhood, it was this one.

We walked into the corrals and I pointed out her horse. Her eyes sparked. I slowly and carefully showed her how to bridle the creature. She listened intently. I gave her the currycomb and she brushed his coat and mane. She asked where horses like to be scratched and her hand reached up under the chin of her animal and he answered her question as her new four-legged friend showed his appreciation by stretching out his neck and nuzzling her shoulder.

And if I thought Red’s heart was open as wide as a heart could be with her face nestled into the necks of the labs and the pug and the shepherd, I know now that I was strongly mistaken about how big hearts really are.

But I should have known. I was that girl.

I am her.

Because there is nothing like a girl on a horse. And until now, I guess I must have thought I was the only one who lost myself completely on the back of an animal who takes your life and carries it across the rugged prairies, through fields of clover and snakes and wild, wild things. I guess I thought I was the only one who threw my heart wholly to a beast who could launch you high in the air with one kick and send you tumbling to the ground, but mostly chooses not to (mostly…but sometimes you need to learn a lesson or two) and instead listens as you ask him to climb a hill

or go fast around a barrel or get up close to a raspberry bush so you can have a sample and then help you bring the cows home.

See, there is a certain amount of trust, a special trust, a different kind of connection between a girl and a horse. And bear with me because I think there is an amount of truth here…

A boy, a man, and his horse have a different agreement. There is a certain amount of power a man, whether physical or mental, is not willing to relinquish to a beast. There is an understanding between the four legged animal and the two legged creature on his back that they will indeed accomplish a task, together, successfully, the way it was meant to the man. And the man thanks the horse for his assistance.

And this is a wonderful thing.

But a girl loves her horse with the kind of tenderness only a woman can give. She longs to understand the animal and knows there are days when all you can do is walk slowly together down the road, no matter how pressing the issue. A girl wants to ride just to maintain a connection with her animal, to let him know that he is hers, she is his and she is here. But when the time comes to run, there is nothing more untamed, there is nothing wilder, there is nothing closer to the wind than a girl, hair tangling behind her, face close to the neck of a her beast as they reach for the horizon.

And up until now it didn’t occur to me that maybe that sort of wild is in every woman, somewhere.

So thanks Red. Thanks for coming over and showing me that even city girls can open their hearts and let go of their fear and their life and the world as they know it and….

ride like the wind.

The extraordinary ones…

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

101

The coulees that dot the landscape on the ranch are mystical places that I spent my entire childhood exploring. Each season they changed, and each year when I returned after a long winter, I found something new.

I walked them today again for the first time in several years and I was taken right back to the magic I feel they possess. I believe that the curious, the brave and special people that take the time to pick apart this prairie and get to the roots of the rough places give themselves a gift of beauty and life and discovery, losing themselves in a mystery like nothing else.

And so when I returned, I wrote….

There are secrets out here at the ranch that not many have explored. These secrets are quiet and hidden and full of magical life that only a watchful, imaginative eye can detect. This magic is not that far off the beaten path and most people, the ordinary people, never even turn a head or give this world a glance as they kick up dust from the tires of their SUVs.

But the special ones, they are curious. The special ones listen. They stand deathly still at the side of the road and hold their breath to hear through the wind and the traffic and the barking dogs. They lift a hand to shield their eyes and carefully take a step off the gravel—one step into the world. And then the brave ones take another and another…

Because they think they can hear something faintly calling to them saying, “hello up there” from way down below, under the tangle of grasses and cactus, along the base of trees, where the roots peek out from under the damp earth. So the curious ones, the ones who listen, move their eyes from the horizon and follow the call from the ground. Their feet bravely urge them to move from the top of the hills among the safety of the open prairie to the mysterious, damp, dark and prickly gullies of the surrounding coulees and creek beds.

They take in the panoramic view of cattails springing up like furry corn-dogs bouncing and bending on frail sticks in the breeze, congregating together under the care of the world’s largest street fair vendor. So the special ones are called to take a step a little closer and the smell of the marsh fills their nostrils as the once solid ground gives way to the dark mud under the reeds. And the water seeps into the brave one’s shoes.

A little startled, they look down and decide that soggy feet may be a small price to pay, because they’re on to something here. They need to get to the other side, to the trail that cuts along the creek that runs, uncommonly, up the banks of the ravine on a hot August day.

They wobble and slosh their way, deeper in, and with each step the voices get a bit louder, coaxing them to look down to the mushrooms and moss multiplying and spreading on the bark of the bur oak. The brave ones bend down to run their fingers along it, to feel the sponge of the mushroom’s fragile skin. Some might take a look underneath the caps of the fungus, not feeling at all silly at this point about making sure the stories of the fairies and the elves aren’t true. And they will be a little disappointed, really, to find, when they look, there is nothing there but a couple gnats…

And the curious ones have their eyes open enough to sense a soft rippling on the surface of the creek as the water bugs zip and glide and row and skim across the water. The brave ones feel the urge to jump in and splash with them, but don’t want to disturb the frail bugs.

Because, if not the fairies or the elves, maybe they are the ones who have called them here…

And when the voices (whoever they are) are drowned out by the buzzing of the mosquitoes and the air gets cooler and damper as the brush thickens up again along the path, even the brave ones can’t take it —they want to see the sky again, to see how the time has passed and how far they have gone. So they claw their way up the steep banks the creek has cut. They want to run to the top of the hill, but their legs are not meant to go so fast at times like these. Something slows them and they crouch to see how the tall grass looks against the overcast sky. They stand up and stretch their limbs to taste the ripe plumbs at the very tips of the thorny branches. The sweet juice pops in their mouths.

The curious ones bend down low to skim the vines for the rare red raspberries and wild strawberries underneath the mangle of green and they tiptoe along the juniper spreading up through the rocks and watch for the poison ivy that has, until the voices, deterred them from coming here.

And in their drunken wonderment, mouths puckered from sucking on the pits of wild berries and foreheads wrinkled from really seeing the small things, they are all surprised that the road has found them again, somehow.

Turning their heads back over their shoulder, they are bewildered by the look of it all from far away.

The trees put their arms around each other, moving so close together they all become one, the wind blows through the reeds, the grass stands up straight, the wild sunflowers spread open their smiles and everything (except the water who hides itself away, not so good at goodbyes) seems to wave at the brave and curious and special ones as they make their way home.

And the extraordinary people say a quiet word of thanks to the voices whispering their secrets, because the small world they thought they knew, the one they thought had belonged only to them, had become quite large indeed.

And after all that magic, it never looked the same again.

For as long as the oak tree has lived…

Posted on August 12, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

900 Miles

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

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

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

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

When spontaneity strikes, at least put on pants…

Posted on August 10, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

So it rained like hell last night at the ranch. After a sweltering hot and humid day, the deep, dark clouds began to roll in over the horizon in the evening and we all scrambled to fulfill our outdoor plans for the night before closing the doors and pressing our foreheads to the glass to see what the storm had in store for us.

And what it had in store, it turned out, was like nothing I have seen in August around here. In fact, I failed to believe the blue clouds and flashes of threatening lightning until I found myself out in the middle of the pink road, turning the power walk with my mother (who I convinced not to worry, it’s not going to rain) into a power run as the wind pushed the rain closer and closer to our backs. Even when my dad came cruising over the hill with the 4-wheeler to rescue his maiden in distress, I refused his offer for a ride home and continued my trek to outrun the storm.

I guess I was finally convinced when I was a quarter mile from our little house and I was soaked, literally, to the bone. My socks were sloshing in my shoes, my clothes were sticking to my skin and the mascara I applied for a day of work in town was running down my cheeks.

I opened my arms to the sky, turned my head up and stuck my tongue out to taste it. Alright, alright, it’s raining, it’s pouring, in August!

And it was glorious.

So I walked a little slower to let it soak in my skin and wash out the stink and sweat and stress of the day and it wasn’t until I turned the last corner into the yard that concerned Prince Charming came up the road only to find his lovely wife looking like a mouse who had been swimming in a stock tank. He was coming to my rescue, but just a little late (in Scofield tradition)

But I was just fine–just fine indeed.

However, now that I am thinking of it, maybe I was a little too fine. A little too thrilled about the turn of events in the weather.

A little insane, perhaps.

I have heard stories and songs about this type of behavior happening to people after a drought–a long hot summer. They pray for rain, for a drop from the sky to relieve them of the dust and despair. So when God is finished with his long, luxurious bath, the heavens finally open up and He, always a conservationist, throws His water out to the most deserving of sinners. And they all rejoice with dances, and parties, whoops and hollars up into the sky.

They go crazy.

Just like me last night.

It could have been the kinetic energy swirling around in the air from the lighting show, making my hair stand on end, or the fact I had spent my first full day of work in town, or it could have just been the utter amazement we had at the amount of water gushing from the sky and down our roads, in our coulees and road ditches and collecting in rivers and deep puddles in the once dry, dusty and crusty areas of the place. Or maybe there was no explanation at all…

But something in me woke up. After the heavy rain had passed, (or so we thought) already dressed for bed and ready to settle in for the night, husband called to me from the front porch to “get my shoes on and come out here.” So I slipped on my flip-flops, stood out on the front porch with Prince Charming and listened as the water rushed and gushed in small rivers through every crevice of our surroundings.

We took a couple steps off the porch together, trying, at first, to avoid the gigantic puddle in our front yard and to keep out of the deep mud. We followed the sound of the rushing rainwater and whooped in amazement at every newly formed stream and waterfall falling off of the cliffs and toward the barnyard. We followed the stream down to the horse corral where we discovered a river had formed, racing its way to the nearby creek bed.

Well, I had to see how deep it was, so I tentatively stuck one foot in. The other quickly followed and pretty soon husband and I were splashing and frolicking nearly knee deep in a river that had spontaneously appeared before us.

It was refreshing and freeing and magical and romantic and adventurous….

I stopped dead in my tracks, turned to husband and looked him square in the eyes.

“Let’s go slide down the gumbo hill.”

“Really?”

“Yes, we have to! It’s right there.”

“ummmm.”

The rainwater had completely washed away any inhibitions and returned me to my youthful, innocent and completely naive state.

I bent my knees and made fists, bouncing up and down with sheer delight.

“I really, really, really want to!”

Husband paused for a second, as if to make sure I was still the girl he married, turned around and made a break for the nearest butte, which was sticking out like a big, daunting, beautiful wart on the landscape outside the fence.

I followed happily, jumping, over the rocks, slipping on the slick mud, crawling on my hands and knees, clawing at the soaked earth and throwing off my shoes and jacket.

See, this is an activity that we used to partake in as kids. After a big storm we would venture out to the nearest gumbo hill and take turns sliding down on our butts, making mud pies and slinging the precious, slimy concoction at one another.

And quickly, for those of you who haven’t experienced what we call “gumbo” I’ll give you an idea of what we are dealing with here. This form of gray dirt, also known as clay, covers the buttes around this area. In the hot summer months, the clay forms hard crusts on the hills. The dirt isn’t very accommodating to much vegetation, so the tops of most hills look like a bald man’s head, but the vegetation it does support is rough and prickly and dry and hearty.

But when it rains, the clay buttes turn to a sloppy, slippery, sticky heaven. Anyone who ventures out into the landscape during or after a rainstorm will find themselves with half of the terrain stuck to the bottom of their boots. And the only way to get anywhere in that situation is to slide it out…

Which is exactly what we did.

In the dark after the storm, in my short shorts and pajama top, I found myself having scrambled to the top of the nearest, tallest butte, standing hand and hand with my husband in what was now pouring rain, looking down on what I was sure to be pure joy– just as I remembered it as a child.

It turns out what I did not remember was all of the jagged rocks that make their homes on the surface of the butte, protecting the smooth clay underneath. The cactuses also seemed to slip my mind, as did the sharp grasses waiting for me at the bottom.

See the thing about making the same spontaneous, reckless and adventurous decisions as an adult as you did in your youth is that, as a child, you no doubt had some voice of reason back at the house telling you about said dangers, how you might be injured or possibly die from the decision and telling you to play on the smaller hill and wear pants, at least.

But as an adult, your memory serves your agenda and you are bigger…so you choose the bigger hill….and you don’t wear pants.

So down husband went, off the cliff and into the dark, surfing on his man sandals, (or what I refer to as man-dals) arms out to balance his weight, catching air, spinning around, gaining speed rapidly and landing a triple axel in a puddle at the bottom.

I clutched my hands to my chest at the top, waiting to hear a sign of life, a cry, a scream, a wail of agony…anything?

“Woooo Hooooooo! Hahahahahaha!”

The thrilling sound bounced off of each hill and made its way up to me through the dark sheets of rain.

All is well. Pure joy. It must have been as fun as I recalled.

I took my first step toward adventure.

My foot slid down. Unsteady, it broke away from the other leg, which was planted firmly on the ground above.

I was in the splits (and I haven’t stretched for this) but only for a moment. My planted leg un-planted and sent me swirling sideways toward the ravine that joined our butte together with his neighbor.

Oh. Shit.

I wanted to start out in control. I wanted to take husband’s already plowed trail.

I mustered the strength to correct my path and squatted down on my feet, taking a cue form husband’s demonstration. You know, like surfing or wakeboarding or snow boarding…all the things I suck at.

Why would this be any different?

It wasn’t.

I slid for .5 seconds this way and quickly fall to my butt, where my shorty-shorts, along with my granny panties, promptly make their way up my crack as I gain speed, now on my bare ass, down an uncharted track of grass and rocks and cactus, cutting out a nice, wide swath with my cheeks.

My squeals of delight quickly turned to screams of agony and I put my arms out to try to slow myself as I hit the patch of vegetation along the bottom of the butte at speeds of what I am guessing to be at least 25 mph. Now my hands are ripping through the tall grass and cactus as the skin of my precious, white tush is being torn to shreds by the crust of God’s green earth.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I slid to a stop at Prince Charming’s feet.

Silence.

I looked up from the bloody, mangled, muddy heap that was my body. Legs sprawled, arms tangled–I took a moment.

Am I dead?

My throbbing ass cheeks indicated probably no.

And so did the hysterical laughter coming from deep within my belly and out my mouth and up to the face of the beautiful swamp man leaning over me.

He reached out his shredded, muddy hand and hoisted his pajama clad, soggy, bloody and whimpering wife to her feet. Wounded, winded, shocked and completely blissed out, I told him I didn’t’ remember the adventure hurting that much when I was 10.

And then I remembered the pants.

The evidence this morning. Notice the two trails cut at the top of the left butte?

Yes, it rained like hell last night and I wish you were here to see the grass glisten, the trees drip, the ravines that were cut through our roads…and to grab my ointment. Because the girl who went to bed as a rain soaked ten year old woke up this morning as an adult. And she isn’t moving too fast today.

Ooof, and there aren’t enough band-aids in the world….

That’s what bikes are for.

Posted on August 6, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

All this talk about roads got me thinking about my bike, which has been leaning up against the shop all summer after being taken out of hiding in the shed in Dickinson earlier this summer. It has been sitting there, with slightly flat tires, so sad looking, pouting, asking me to come out and ride. I turn my head in guilt when I walk outside…try not to look it in the eye. There has been so much to do this summer, like packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking and then, of course, frolicking around the ranch on horseback and on foot. I actually kind of forgot about my bike.

Which is really sad considering how much I used to absolutely live on the thing. I am sure most everyone can remember their first bike as a right of passage. A gift. One more step to freedom because, not only could you get from point A to point B a little bit faster, you could now officially leave your little sister/brother in the dust and set off into new, undiscoverable horizons (or at least to the end of the block and back).

And isn’t it a shame how quickly we forget the initial absolute thrill of the bicycle as soon as we get behind the wheel of our first car? After we have gone through all of the phases of the bike: riding in the seat behind our mother, the training wheels on, the training wheels off, the streamers on the handle bars, the basket on the front (although, I never had any of these features…my first bike was blue and I’m sure it was made for a boy). Then we learned to ride with only one hand, then with no hands, and then, wow, we could coast along with no hands and no feet. And that was amazing, really. I mean we mastered the thing, so we put a clothespin and card in the spoke to fool anyone in a mile radius I’m sure, that we were not on a boring bike, but riding a so much way cooler moped.

By that time, then, we were probably already practicing for our first drivers test, parallel parking between the lawn mower and a bag of grass seed, learning to work a clutch and a stick shift and use our blinkers and giving our parents mini-heart attacks. And I am sure all of you passed the test on the first attempt and were on to the next phase of your young adulthood. I may or may not have had to take my test a couple times…

It’s a natural transition I suppose, so I thank the Lord in heaven that He finally had mercy and allowed me to pass my drivers test or it would have been a lonely and tiring high school career. Because having to ride my bike thirty miles to town and then back again would have made an awful discouraging dent in my social life.

Which reminds me of what I was going to say about life on a bike out here as a kid in the middle of nowhere. See, it was quite a bit different than the bike experience of the town kids. They actually used their piece of glorious metal on two wheels to get somewhere–like the pool, school, the video store, anywhere you get ice cream or candy or to set up their lemonade stand and make millions.

Our lemonade stands didn’t fare so well out here along the open highway. We made some money, but now I am sure our parents called the nearest neighbor and had them “randomly” drive by, only stop and pay $10 for a styrofoam cup of weak lemonade. Hey, we were just happy to have a customer that wasn’t related to us.

Anyway, my best friend and I were the only kids for miles on bikes and we used our cruisers to meet half way between our houses, which were about a mile apart. This half-way agreement actually never really worked out for me because there happened to be a huge, steep, daunting hill coming out of our yard, so I spent the majority of the time pushing my way up. But she would wait for me at the top and we would hit the highway, weaving in and out of the yellow, dotted line, gossiping about our little sisters, complaining about our parents and making plans for our next project while we cruised back and forth between the boundaries of the two cattle guards. And sometimes we would stop at her house to get a popsicle and jump on the trampoline and sometimes we would make our way down the big hill to my house to have a glass of water and venture off into the trees to gather juneberries and wood ticks.

But most of the time we would just ride out there on the open prairie as the wind played with our fluffy, youthful hair, tied back loosely in hasty ponytails. We would stand and pedal hard up the steep hills, breathing heavily and then squeal and throw our heads back as we flew down to the bottom. Without a care. From a birds eye view I was sure we looked like we were flying as we were gliding gracefully on that ribbon of blacktop. We sure felt like it.

And, no, we didn’t really go anywhere. We didn’t have change jingling in our pockets to buy some tootsie rolls or a backpack with a towel and sunscreen so we could make a stop at a pool. Our adventure wasn’t interrupted by these things, which gave us time to think about really important stuff–like inventing a bug shield to protect our faces from the critters that slammed into our eyes and got in our teeth when zooming through the tall grass at astronomical speeds. I think we actually executed this invention with a little sister’s bike helmet and a ketchup bottle. Screw the lemonade stand, there was our millions right there.

Yes, we had no one out there, but the black top and gravel roads and an occasional little sister yelling “wait for me” in our dust. And those were my glory days really. That was true freedom.

So last night the pink road and my relatively new, pink big girl bike got together and called my name loud enough that I finally obliged and husband and I hit the trail. I excitedly climbed on the first bike I have owned in my adult life (which I purchased when we lived in town with every intent to ride it to work or the store–you know, to get me somewhere) and I made my wobbly way up the hill and out of the yard. Husband cruised up ahead, cruising in and out of the ditches and practicing his wheelies. I worked to balance my camera and take some action shots and discovered that the phrase “it comes back to you, just like riding a bike” is true to an extent, but may require more practice as I slammed on the breaks and nearly launched myself over the handlebars and into the hard gumbo of the road ditch.

Maybe I should just concentrate.

And after a few test runs with the brakes and switching gears, soon I was twelve again, and so was my husband. We quickly veered off of the main road and up the prairie trail, past where I jumped off of my horse and broke my arm, past the hay yard, up through the alfalfa field, past the swather and the perfectly constructed hay bales. We flew down through the coolies and panted and stood up in the pedals as we pushed our bodies up the hills and along the fence lines. We gasped for air, nervously flung our hands to the sky and threw our heads back as we sped through the clover and over the bumps in the now nonexistent trail. I screeched with sheer joy as I caught air over a cow pie and nearly crashed to the ground. He chuckled as the dogs ran too close ahead and almost caught a tire in their tails. And the horses, not accustomed to this type of activity, spooked and went running and bucking across the pasture, only to return again and again to see really, what these people were up to.

What were we up to anyway? We weren’t going anywhere. We weren’t checking the time or taking our heart rate or working on building our muscles. We weren’t being careful or quiet or slow to take in nature, stopping to smell the flowers or to enjoy the breathtaking scenery. We were obnoxious really, screaming and laughing and laying down grass and pushing up dirt with our tires. We were hot and sweaty and itchy from the weeds scraping up against our bare legs. We were sucking in air as we bounced out of control out of the yard and over the horizon.

Because in that moment, the last fifteen years never happened and we were kids again for a bit, blissfully happy and youthful on our bikes, re-living our glory days and going nowhere, but going fast.

And we were free….

because that’s what bikes are for.

My love–better than a party hat.

Posted on August 2, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

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

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

Holy shit.

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

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

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

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

With breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the coyotes followed me home…

Posted on July 28, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

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

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

Oh shit.

I yelled for him at the top of the hill.

No pug.

Walked a little further. Called his name again.

No pug.

I made it home.

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

Called to the pug.

No pug.

Called husband.

“I think the coyotes got the pug.”

“Hmmm…Really? Why do you think that?”

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

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

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

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

I called dad for a second opinion.

Same opinion.

I took a long time to get my shoes on.

I called to the pug again.

I called husband again.

I took a long time looking for the gun.

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

The pug was home.

Crisis averted.

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

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

Be wild, child.

Posted on July 27, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

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

And it was absolutely lovely.

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

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

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

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

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

So we stopped to get ice cream.

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

“Strawberry”

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

“Banana”

“No banana. Chocolate or vanilla.”

“Just regular then.”

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

And back on the road to the ranch.

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

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

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

First things first, we found their jeans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bravery thing.

Posted on July 21, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

We spent what I hope to be one of our last weekends working on the house renovation in Dickinson this weekend. And no matter how positive I keep my attitude during this massive project (that has, I think, worked really hard to ruin my life for the last two years) sometimes you just have to sit on the roof and have a little mental breakdown.

Because I saw my life flash before my eyes this weekend.

I have never claimed to be a brave person–I mean when it comes to hazardous situations that have the capabilities to maim or dismember or cause head trauma or possible death, the worst case scenario always flashes in my mind. I play it all out: I am running the table saw and my hand slips, slicing off a much under appreciated (until that moment) left hand appendage. I scream in horror. Blood pools from my hand and the husband comes rushing to my side, wrapping the wound with the bandana from his head as he frantically searches for the missing limb in a garage full of dust and tools and scraps I should have cleaned up yesterday, dammit. We rush to the hospital and the limb cannot be saved, and I walk around the rest of my life having to explain the accident and why I don’t have a left thumb. Knitting is definitely out.

I snap out of the day dream (or nightmare) and realize that the particular situation is probably unlikely, considering all of the safety precautions and the fact that I rarely run the table saw. But I also realize that shit like this does happen sometimes. It happens to some people–you know, the ones that are walking around missing pieces of their bodies. And if I’ve learned anything in my short life it is that if it’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen to me.

See, I’m accident prone. It has been proven. I have stubbed multiple toes, broken fingers, and have scars from minor, “walking” and “baking” accidents all over my arms and legs. Yes, I have been labeled a bit of a klutz. My cousins called me “tuck and roll” for most of my life for crying out loud. This unique characteristic of my existence is at the top of my mind today because I am nursing an old injury. It “flared up.” (Does using this phrase make me that much closer to becoming the old lady I always knew I was meant to be?) And, as chain of events seem to go, this happy little reminder of a youth spent in several different casts was the culprit of my near demise this weekend.

When I was about thirteen years old I was helping my dad get the horses in from the pasture to the front of the barn. At that time, our horses didn’t come when we whistled, unfortunately for me.

Most of the time when I was growing up we would walk to look for them in the pasture and then lead them in with grain, or take a bridal and ride one of them bareback home, while the others followed. Well this particular time my dad, my little sister and myself took the pickup and some grain out into the pasture to call them in. But we forgot a bridal. No worries. Dad told me to just jump on my old mare and ride her in. He had a piece of twine (or leather, I can’t remember, it’s all a blur now), from which he made a temporary bridal, slipped it over her nose and boosted me up on the old, red mare, stomping and milling around with the other ten horses. My mission was to ride her in while the rest of the herd followed.

Simple.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Except it did.

As we made our way toward the barn over the hill, my horse began to step up the pace–from a walk, to a trot, to the not so fun on bareback fast trot, to an all out run.

I pulled frantically on my homemade bridal with no response, because the mare was on a mission and I guess my dad needed to take a class in bridal making. I was now trying to steer and gain control of an oversized animal with a mind of her own with a piece of string connected to NOTHING BUT AIR!!! And all the beautiful horses followed behind, bucking and kicking and snorting and stomping and laughing and teasing me as a tried to remain calm on the back of a 1,200 pound beast in the middle of a damn stampede.

So after weighing all my options and seeing my death played out in my mind, what did I do? I decided to bail.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, you could decide to jump on the hardest, most uneven, piece of hard packed gumbo on the ranch, which just happened to be littered with rocks and boulders and sharp objects ready to pierce your fragile skin. Yes, you could decide to jump off there, all elbows and legs flailing as you reason that hitting the ground on purpose couldn’t possibly be as life altering as hitting it by accident.

Except I am not sure there is a difference really. Hitting the ground is hitting the ground, especially when you abandon all logical falling moves designed to protect one’s limbs and noggin. Like the well known “tuck and roll.”

And I eventually hit the ground. And hit my head on a rock. And broke my wrist in half.

That was a fun one for the little horse gathering crew to explain to mom.

Anyway, after a surgery and pins and a summer in a cast, without really noticing, I have chosen to use that wrist as little as possible into my adult life. And this weekend that little injury came back to bite me… funny how my accidents connect.

Like I said, it flared up. I pride myself on being able to tell when the weather is going to change, because the old wrist stiffens up (yeah, I am definitely an old lady) but this was a bit more severe than an ache, and the weather wasn’t changing. But I didn’t let it stop me from getting my work done. No, not this tough girl. I complained enough about it, but I went about my business, which on this particular day happened to involve painting the outside of the house. Which requires a really tall ladder and getting on the roof.

Did I mention I hate heights? Like I pray to God when I am above ground level a few feet to save me from my immanent death.

But anyway, I also happen to hate asking for help. Because I should be able to handle moving a 20 ft. antique, adjustable fiberglass ladder around to all sides of the house with only one, measly, Olive Oyl arm.

No problem.

What could possibly go wrong.

Well, after a couple successful, but agonizing moves, exhausted and sweating to beat hell, I tried, one last time to move the 100 pound apparatus by positioning myself directly underneath it, balancing it on my shoulder as I attempted to dig the base into the ground and hoist it to lean it in its proper location. That was the plan. Until my good arm gave out and the ladder wobbled back and forth as my shoulders acted as the base in a teeter totter, positioning my head directly between two rungs. Two adjustable rungs. And in my efforts to stay standing to avoid being flattened by this fiberglass ladder that was ripping all exposed flesh to shreds, I maneuvered the ladder just right to get my good arm in position to fling the thing off of myself, which also happened to be the same maneuver that signals the ladder to adjust. Adjust down. Which trapped my head between the two rungs.

Shit.

I pulled back.

Still stuck.

I pushed forward.

Still stuck.

I wondered if the neighbors were watching.

Still stuck.

I contemplated the embarrassment of this sort of explanation on my death certificate.

The pressure began to constrict my airway.

I laughed a little at the thought. I began to sweat. I thought about calling to my husband, but didn’t want the neighbors to hear. I started to cry…just for a second.

In one more breath of courage and adrenaline in the face of humiliation, I decided to see if my bad hand may be able to finally pull its weight around here and I reached for both sides of the ladder and with gusto managed to signal the ladder to adjust up, freeing my skull and rocketing the ladder to the ground.

Praise Jesus.

I ran in to tell the story to my husband, who promptly came out to move the ladder for me so I could get on the roof and finish the job.

Yes. That is exactly what could go wrong. And exactly what I did. I got back on the horse. I got back on the roof. I dangled over the edge, scraping the siding, praying to the Saint of gravity or falling or not falling or landing softly (I’m not Catholic, and am not familiar with the Saints, but figured there must be one for these situations). I negotiated all worst case scenarios. I shook. I swore. I cried…just a little.

And then I called my husband up for help. And he, like Superman, or Spiderman or something, jumped from the pickup, to the garage roof, to the house roof in three noble leaps to sit with me high above Dickinson, on top of the life we’re about to sell, as I wished away my fear.

I wished to be more like him, my husband, who conquers tasks, high above or down below ground (or in his most dreaded situations, like cocktail parties) with precision and confidence. I wished to be more like my pug, who on the way home leaped from the window of my moving pickup and bounced and rolled like a beach ball into the ditch, only to get up and run toward the house, because he just couldn’t wait to be back at the ranch and he thought he could get there faster.

But would life be easier without the fear–without our mind and our reasoning and our logic getting in the way of all of the things we are capable of? If we could just jump, head first like the pug as the ground goes whizzing out from under us without thought of how this could end? Would we be better If we could make the decision, in a split second, and have faith that it will turn out, or at least get us somewhere–somewhere more than a broken arm, a head stuck in a ladder or a life without bravery?

I don’t think so. Bravery defined is “feeling no fear.” But to live a life of bravery, to me, does not mean to live a life with no fear. We need fear–it makes us human and separates us from the pugs. It saves us from head trauma, hurt feelings and broken ams. Fear is always in there, somewhere. I mean, even noble husband is afraid of something (which happens to be spiders). Fear gives us pause to reflect and really feel, to think and reason and then, hopefully do it anyway. Because it is the conquering that is the most difficult, which makes it the most important really. It is the conquering that makes us brave.

I am working on it. The bravery thing. The conquering thing.

Because the project needs to get done, my husband’s not a great painter and I at least have one good hand.

And another for emergencies.

I know what home is.

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

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

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

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

Home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My heart filled up.

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

And I felt damn loved.

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

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

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

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

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

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