A moment with Pops…

Posted on October 10, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

On this Sunday evening I would like to share with you a few moments in the life of my pops. It’s a scene I’ve witnessed a few times before, but I imagine it hardly ever occurs as he’s out traipsing the pastures, working, making sure nothing is amiss…

But when it appears all is well, the garbage has been taken out, the cows are in the proper coulees, the horses are watered and fed and the dogs are taking a break from terrorizing the above animals, pops finds himself a quiet spot to rest…

just for a minute…

just to examine the back of his eyelids…

Really. You understand don’t you? It takes energy to lean against this autumn wind.

I knew you’d agree.

So while we are all at home thinking, “Man, pops has been gone a while…he must be working hard…fencing maybe…cows must be out…wonder if he needs help…he must be hungry…or chilled on this brisk fall day…I’ll put on some coffee for when he gets in. He’ll like that. Poor guy, working overtime all the time out on this rough landscape in this harsh weather…he’ll need a nap when he gets in…”

…maybe…

Yup.

Hope your weekend had some moments like these…
And these…

‘Cause it was a rough couple of days at the Veeder Ranch.

Why you shouldn’t wear ball gowns in the barnyard…

Posted on September 29, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Ahh, autumn’s beauty. Serene. Peaceful, golden hues, warm setting sun, a light breeze, one perfect horse grazing on the hillside.

From here it looks like I exist in a damn painting. From here it looks like something in a coffee table book.

Or a page in the Western Horseman, Cowboys and Indians, the photo that goes with October in an outdoors calendars, or the art that I imagine hangs on the wall of one of those fancy ranch houses in Texas.

Only this is real life people. You know it. This is no painting. No sir. At this distance our horses are sleek and groomed, with slick, shiny coats glistening in the bug free air.

True rugged beauty.

Unbelievable.

Yes.

Unbelievable.

Oh, come a little closer pretty boys. Let us run our hands through your manes, bury our faces in your coat, ride like the wind as the autumn air whips through our gorgeous hair…just like that woman on her steed in the clothing poster in the dressing room.

Yes, come closer, I’ll be her…let me get my long, flowing dress and giant earrings…

Oh, pretty boys yes, I’ll take your photo. We’ll show them what it’s like out here in the wild west of North Dakota. You are specimens. You are what those stable horses dream to be.

Free.

Agile.

Spirited.

Untamed.

Wild.

And….

well….

umm….

ah shit…

I weep.

I twitch.

I scratch.

And then fall to my knees and ask the sweet Lord to have a chat with the Devil himself. Because the Lord that I believe in created all things indeed. The worms for the birds, the mosquitos for the frogs, the mice for the snakes, the snakes for the hawks, the weeds for the goats. I get it. I know how the chain works. I see the big picture. Lord, I do indeed.

But burs?

I just don’t get it. The only answer to the riddle of why these beastly, nasty, gnarly, poky, sticky, velcro-esk, buds of torture exist has to be this…bare with me here: While the sweet Lord was busily and happily creating things, he had mercy on the Devil and gave in to his plea to let him have a chance at inventing something. And the Lord, ever trusting, always willing to give second chances, thought to himself, “Ah, what the heck, maybe the Devil has turned himself around” and then suggested that the King of the Underworld start off with something small, like a nice little green plant, maybe a pretty insect or a flower. So the Devil rubbed his spindly little hands together, swished his tail and snickered with glee as he concocted a plan for a plant to take over barnyards everywhere.

“It will start out innocently enough,” he growled to himself while God had his back turned, busily inventing baby ducks. “Some people will mistake it for rhubarb and happily collect it to bake in pies for unsuspecting neighbors. Bwahahahah….cough cough” (the Devil coughs, you know, because of all that smoke inhalation).

“Wheeeze…ahem…and then it will grow. It will grow tall and strong in the most inconvenient places, like in front of the barn, and along the water tank, or the edges of creeks and under shady trees, you know, everywhere a beautiful horse with a long luscious mane might want to wander,” the Devil snorted.

God moved onto lilypads with those pretty little yellow flowers and then finished out his day with penguins and cotton-balls, all the while trusting the Devil to do the right thing, like go along with the useful insect idea. But no. The Devil had plans…

“It won’t need sun,” he was pacing now. “Oh, no. In fact, being the spawn of the devil, this “plant” (the Devil loves to use air quotes…it’s so annoying) it will prefer the dark places. But when the sun does hit it, no worries. It will just sprout the best part, the best part of it all…poky, sticky, scratchy little balls that will jump off the plant and stick to anything remotely fuzzy, kinda like how the velcro on your baby cousin’s shoes collect lint…only worse…WORSE I TELL YOU!!”

He laughed, he roared, he used his pitchfork thing to strike the new earth while he declared…

“This is good…I mean bad…because sticking on tightly to anything and everything that moves about the place will allow my weed to spread to every corner of the prairie. And it will multiply and grow and thrive! Mwahahaaa…Why you ask?! Because nothing. NOThing. NOTHING WILL EAT IT!”

And with that, and a swipe of his red hot pitchfork thing, burdock was invented…

And there aren’t enough chainsaws in the world to remove it completely from the ranch.

Now I wish I wouldn’t have put on this long, flowing, ball-gown for this horse frolic photo shoot, because I am pretty sure I have a bur stuck to my butt…

Oh Lord, grant me the strength, proper equipment, cosmetics and attire to deal with ten horses who have been convinced by an evil man with pointy horns, red tights and a tail that the best grass is the grass growing underneath a cocklebur bush.

Scratch. Scratch.

Sniffle.

Sob.

Waahh…

67 minutes, a half bottle of Show-Sheen, twenty newly invented cuss-words and a broken comb later…

Yawn...

Ready…

For your…

Close up…

Ok. That’s better.

And I’d like to tell you that will be the first and last time I post a photo of a horse’s butt, but I just can’t make any promises…

Take that Devil…now I think it’s time we have a chat about wood ticks….

DAAAMMMAAAIITTT!

A letter from me.

Posted on August 26, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

So here I am, 27 years ago on my first birthday getting ready to dig into some cake.

Last night I found myself in this same spot, in a house on the end of the same road, on the same day of the year, doing the same thing.

Yup. I turned 28 yesterday. And somewhere between digging into the angel food cake my momma bakes me each year, opening presents in my parent’s living room and reflecting on the past while thinking seriously (like I do on August 25th each year) about what I want to be when I grow up, I realized that really, in 28 years of life in this body, not much has changed about me, except for maybe the length of my limbs…

Please, allow me to reflect for a moment:

See, despite being thrust into a world with a big sister who liked frilly, pink, sparkly things…and ballet slippers…it was quite evident at a young age that being stuffed into a tutu was not where my pudgy body felt the most comfortable.

Oh, I will admit, I tested it a bit, having gone through a stage at about 2 or 3 where all I wore was leotards, tights, leg-warmers and velcro shoes. I am not sure whether or not to be thankful to my wonderful parents who obliged this trend, allowing me the freedom of expression, even though that freedom included spandex and a sweaty toddler. Thank Martha that phase only stuck long enough for a few choice photos to exist.

Yes, soon I realized I was much more comfortable in outfits made out of denim and plaid.

That worked for me. Dance lessons be damned, I was going to be a gardener.

A gardener and a vet.

Oh, there was a moment, I think in the leotard phase, that I wanted to be a beauty shop.

Yes. A beauty shop.

But I think that was tossed out of the equation as soon as I got on the back of my first horse.

Then I was for sure going to be a rodeo star. A singing professional horse trainer and barrel racer. That would make my life complete. That and living in a hollowed out tree like the kid in my favorite book “My Side of the Mountain.”

Yes, I would be a gardening vet and professional singing horse trainer who lived in a hollowed out tree and on Fridays I would attend county fairs and jump my amazing horses off of one-hundred foot towers and into tiny pools of water like the woman in the movie “Wild Hearts Can’t be Broken.” Only, I wouldn’t go blind.

I would need my eyesight to attend to the animals.

I remember it that way anyway, being young and full of magnificent ideas about the world I would create for myself once I was an adult. And then you hit about 15 and you start questioning everything that you had laid out so nice and neat in your imagination. And then you go to college and you experience mass confusion. And then you get your first job, ditch your first job, fall in love or out of love, get your own dog or goldfish and continue searching for a spot in this world…the spot you were pretty sure existed when you were four or five or six.

Where the hell did it go?

When I moved back here, to the ranch, a little over a year ago, I made a small promise to myself to do the things I remember loving so much as a kid. That explains the gumbo hill fiasco, you know? And I have. But now that the newness of this back at the ranch experience is wearing off, I have found myself losing sight of that promise, pushing it away to make more room for paperwork and plans.

Yes, paperwork and plans, they exist in an adult’s life. But they don’t have to move everything else–time spent watching the sunset, picking wildflower, exploring the coulees, or trying to catch a frog–out of the way. It’s hard to remind myself of that sometimes.

So when I received an email from one of my long-lost friends last month, a friend who really only knew Jessie Blain Veeder as a young kid in elementary school, I was excited to hear that she had found one of the letters I had written to her as a best friend forever who was left behind at the country school as she moved to the big town.

I think I was in 2nd or 3rd grade. And my long-lost best friend–who used to be as wild as I was, dirty knees, swinging from the branches of the small oaks, falling in creeks and exploring the barn– felt compelled to share that letter with me.

Word for word. Spelling error for spelling error.

As a gift for you all, dear readers, in the week of my birthday, I am going to share it with you now:

Dear Caroline (CBO):

I am writing to you from my school room. I heard that you invited me to your house this summer and I think that would be wonderful. I Miss you a whole bunch and I wish you still were at this school. I haven’t written or talked to you for a very long time. I have this friend and her name is Gwen she reminds Me of you. Thats why I like her. We are going to the Theodore Rosevelt National Park tomorrow for our field trip and it is supposed to be 80 outside. I herd that you are going to a horse camp. I am too. Are you in 4-H? I am. I am going to 4-H horse camp. I am going to Bible Camp and Youth Camp for 4-H. I have been riding horse alot this year. I am sooooooo glad winter is over. Rondee is substitute teaching today because my teacher is sick. She has been gone for four days. Friday Monday and Tuesday and Wednseday. We get out of school on the 20th of May. We have play day on the 20th too. I am doing the three legged race with Gwen. We have been practicing for a long time and we are going to Kick Mike and Dan’s Butt. For sure. They never practice and we are getting pretty good at it. Do you remember when we won the three legged race together? What are you going to be when you grow up. Ever since my runt Dog named Tiny died I have been thinking that there was something I could do to save her. So I have decided I want to be a vet. I love animals and I want to help them. I have been playing vet at recess alot and I have discovered that I know alot about animals. We are bottle feeding a calf his name is A.J. We had twin calves too. I named them Rockey and Bowinkle. We have many kittens but most of them are wild. The calico cat has had 9 or 10 batches of kittens ever since you left from your last visit. Well It is time for class better go.

Your friend forever

Jess.

Sigh.

Thanks Caroline. Thanks for the reminder that the person who wrote you this letter is still in me–wild hair, wild ideas, wild kittens and all.

Happy birthday little girl. Thanks for hanging in there with me. Because of you, I think we’re gonna be ok.

Party ’till the people come home…

Posted on August 8, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

The ranch in summer. Its lush and green and yellow and smells of vegetation and clover and dirt and the backs of horses. Its been warm and sticky during the day and cool at night, perfect timing for pulling the windows open and laying on top of the sheets in my jammies while I read Barbara Kingsolver’s “Prodigal Summer” or, if I’m feeling particularly vegged-out and relaxed, watch the latest episodes of “So You Think You Can Dance…” (Hey, my interests are broad, don’t judge–I think it might be the best show on television.)

Anyway, yes, summer at the ranch. It’s quite lovely most of the time. Even more so when you are blessed with a day of rain in the beginning of August guaranteeing the countryside a few more weeks of green.

That was the case on Friday. It was gloomy and rainy all day and I was happy knowing that I didn’t have to water my flowers, and actually, come to think of it, I never really had to water them at all this summer.

Yes, and all of this moisture has been great for the lawn too, you know, the lawn I battled with in the beginning of June. Because once I got the forest knocked down, husband and I have been maintaining it, grooming it, weed whacking the crap out of it, and admiring our neon green, lush, nearly town-material lawn that surrounds the barn and almost distracts from the broken down garage.

Things were going well. We are on the downslope of summer and the lawn was still immaculate.

So I was kinda happy with the rain on Friday. I was pleased with the cool down and the chance to stay inside, eat husband’s homemade knoephla soup, and write some new music. And the next day, while it was still a drizzle, husband and I headed out the door to take an engineering student who was visiting from Sweden on a tour of the oil field activity in the area.

We had a great day planned for him and I was excited to learn about what husband does all day (besides driving around and checking on things…which is the explanation I have been giving to friends and family for the past three years…) It was also nice to get to know someone our age from across the ocean and learn that we have so much in common over one of the best steaks I’ve ever had cooked for me at a restaurant. Seriously, if you haven’t been to The Bison Room in New Town, NDmake a date with your spouse, your gram, your kids, your best friend, yourself, whatever, but get there. They know what they’re doing. Ok, so there’s my western North Dakota traveling/tourist tip for you, now on with my captivating and intense story…

So there I was sitting shotgun in husband’s pickup at 8:30 pm on our way back to the ranch. I was full and pleased and ready for a nice Sunday spent maybe, oh, I don’t know, picking chokecherries, riding, cleaning, reading or mowing the lawn.

But it turns out the cows had other plans for us.

Because while we were out frolicking in the oil field and probably feasting on one of their cousins for dinner, the cows were waiting in the bushes for our taillights to disappear over the hill and out of sight. See, on their schedule was a picnic. A picnic of short, lush, well groomed, green grass growing before their big, brown eyes. So as soon as we hit the highway they skipped on over, pulled out their lawn chairs and coolers, staked out the volleyball net, the croquet set, the Norwegian horseshoes, and proceeded to have themselves a regular old block party…all 150 women, their offspring and their two boyfriends.

And all in my, lush, beautiful, neon green, rain-saturated yard.

I’ll tell you they must have been looking for us, you know, to invite us to the festivities, because the evidence of their attempts to break in were in the deep footprints dug in right up to the basement door, and the living room window, and the bathroom window, and the bedroom window. They really didn’t want us to miss it. I mean, I’m sure croquet is more fun when you invite guests with opposable thumbs.

And judging by the size and numbers of plops in my yard, I am guessing the eating was as good as their games.

Shit.

It smells like shit.

That’s what I said when we pulled into the yard in the dark and I stepped out of the pickup and into a fresh cow pie.

And as I scuffled my way to the front door, sniffing the pungent air, the illumination from the barnyard light revealed small reflections on water puddles in the lower yard, right next to the retaining wall and the flowers my grandmother planted that, um, used to be there…what the hell?

Is that mud?

Is that water sitting in deep crevices shaped like hundreds and hundreds of hoof prints?

Is that poop? I keep stepping in poop? Is it? I can’t see?!!

Where are the damn dogs?

Snort, snort, slobber, slobber, yawn, whap, whap, whap.

Oh, there they are. Sleeping on the deck.

I growled to husband as we deduced that all signs pointed to a flaw in the system. The system where you have dogs on a ranch to keep the cows out of the yard.

Or to help you get them out of the heavy brush when you’re riding.

Or to assist you as you herd them through a gate.

That would be the idea of a cow dog.

But, oh yeah, that’s right. We don’t have cow dogs. We have dogs whose only purpose is to eat, sleep, poop in front of the stoop, drag dead things to the deck in front of our door and apparently party with the cows.

Whhhaaaaaaa!

Wwhhhyyyyyyaaaaaa!

3,000 acres and you party at my house?

Countless energy of screaming at you two dogs to get back, to stop chasing the damn cows, and you choose this day, these six hours, to actually obey a rule!!!

Hours spent in the sweltering sun clipping and whacking and working to create an acceptable carpet of grass and all I’m left with is three thousand cow plops, ankle deep mud, an invasion of flies and a bad farmer’s tan???!!!

I stormed inside and booked a flight to Sweden. Because I have a new friend there and he said we could come to visit anytime.

So I hope you’ll stick with me on my journey abroad and check out my adventures coming soon on my new blog: Meanwhile, back in Stockholm…

Oh, and if you love me, do me a favor tonight…eat beef!

4-H, the broken bean and why I may never sleep again..

Posted on August 5, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

It was a partially-cloudy, partially-sunny, partially-windy, partially-calm, partially-cool, partially-warm day in the North Dakota badlands and I sat at a small lunch table in the school cafeteria in the middle of a little cowboy town. I had a name tag attached to my floral shirt. It said “Judge.” I had a binder, a pencil, a stack of papers, a sweat bead beginning to form on one of my eyebrows…and fifty kids’ hope of the grand champion ribbon hanging on my “expert” opinion.

The hand of the clock moved to indicate it was 8:00 am in this cowboy town on the edge of the buttes. It was 8:00 and it was time to get serious. Because this was the moment every country, crafty, green thumbed, talented kid in the county had been getting ready for all summer.

The cafeteria began to buzz, a little more energy walking through the double doors with each passing hour. Kids in white shirts and boots that squeaked on the tile floor rushed around carrying homemade quilts, photos, plants, and bugs pinned to foam board while the the white and green clover patch hung proudly above their hearts.

The hearts they have pledged to greater loyalty.

Meanwhile, my loyal heart was breaking.

Don’t be alarmed though. That’s just what happens when I am face to face with a young man in a button up shirt and glasses who has lugged a ten pound pot filled with petunias from his family’s farm thirty miles away only to plop it down in front of me on that cafeteria table, the top of his head barely peeking over the red, leafy plants, and begin to explain the method he followed to make the plant grow so lusciously large…all the while poking at the dirt and trying to put the chunk of plastic that had fallen off of the pot on the long journey back in its proper place.

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “This is about the plant not the pot…and the plant looks great!”

He instantly relaxed and went on about how he made sure to keep an eye out for his plants because they have some dogs full of mischief at their farm, and how he used Miracle Grow soil this time, soil that absorbs water if you accidentally give the plant too much. And that is what he learned.

That and to be careful in the transport.

It was a blue ribbon plant, a blue ribbon interview, a blue ribbon kid…it was going to be a blue ribbon day.

Ahhh, this was 4-H at its finest. One of the last truly wholesome things in the world and I got to be a part of it.

Although, I’m not so sure that I was their best choice, you know, given my soft spot for children who have put their loyal hearts, clear-thinking heads, service-oriented hands, and health to work all summer on giant latch hooking projects, wildflower collections, a terrarium in an aquarium, a leather tooled pouch, and a cross for their father’s grave.

How do I chose a favorite?

How do I chose a best when I am dealing with the best–the kids who dedicate their summer to learning, to doing, to accomplishing something meaningful to showcase, to pass along and share?

What do I say to the young lady smack dab in the middle of teenage-dom who presented me with a photo of her perfectly posed red border collie and smiled with pure innocence and delight as she talked about his puppy antics, his cow-dog capabilities, his big, loving personality and why she likes to photograph him? How do I tell her that while she was explaining all of the different scenes she photographed before choosing this, her favorite, a photo of her pet that will go on her wall, she was single handedly restoring my hope for the future of her generation?

Blue ribbon. That’s what I say. Blue, blue, blue.

And how do I tell the lankly, shy fifteen-year-old that the story he was telling me about walking the ditches with his dad to capture a photo of a perfectly constructed, perfectly vibrant, perfectly lovely wild sunflower with the old camera he was given was giving me a lump in my throat? How do I tell him that, from now on, every patch of wild sunflowers I see will tempt me to look for the most symmetrical and most pristine plant out there…and it will reminded of him?

Blue. Blue. Blue ribbon for you.

And what to I say to the little girl in glasses who had been waiting in line for a half an hour to proudly show me her purple flowers in a purple flower pot? How do I tell her that yes, her flowers are lovely, but her personality and manners and respectful and lovely nature will take her far in gardening and in life? How do I tell her that she’s going to grow up and it’s going to get a little hard sometimes, but to always remember this moment and that her favorite part about gardening was getting to play in the dirt?

Blue I say. Blue ribbon!

And what about the sixteen-year-old girl who showed an amazingly artistic photo of a trip she took to the big city while also showing me a zest, love and excitement for adventure and new experiences along the way. How do I ask her to send me a postcard from Paris when she gets there, a shout out when she’s barrel racing at the National High School Rodeo Finals, a photo from the top of Mt. Everest?

Well, I guess I tell her to take more pictures, take all the pictures she can…and she’s got herself a blue ribbon.

Oh, I am hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. And apparently with a little experience it doesn’t get better. See, I judged 4-H for the first time a few weeks ago at my home county’s fair. Pre-teen photography. I was blown away. I don’t know if it is the new digital camera technology or the eye for detail these kids have because, you know, they are a little closer to the ground and everything, but there were photos in this group that I would hang on my wall with pride, that I would submit to contests, that I would put in a calendar. I wanted to stand up and cheer.

Needless to say, there was enough blue ribbons to go around. And they were all deserving.

And I slept good that night.

Which brings me to this.

Sigh.

In the middle of the buzz and chaos yesterday a little girl with a Beezus haircut and a froggy voice stood in line for a good fifteen minutes to meet with me. She was holding a long tub filled with dirt and a few leafy plants on skinny stems that waved and bowed as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Barely big enough to wrap her arms around her pot she carefully set her project down in front of her and cleared her throat. And while she was explaining to me how she found these beans and planted them and placed them next to the window in her house to get some sunlight, I examined the beans, wiped the sweat from my eyebrow and whimpered silently to myself.

Because this girl was adorable.

Lovely.

A specimen of a 4-H kid with the white shirt, the blue pants, the clover patch, the bubbly spirit, the perfect posture…

But her beans lacked the same grand champion outfit and stature, in fact, one of her beans was broken, held up by masking tape.

But this girl, this adorable little girl loved her beans. Who was I to tell her they aren’t perfect? And did it really matter anyway? But what would it say to the other blue ribbon winners if a broken bean got a blue ribbon too? What type of standard would that set? How was I to be taken seriously as a judge ever again? I liked this gig. I loved the kids. I want to be invited back but the bean is broken!!!? Where is the manual that explains what to do in a situation like this: cute kid, perfectly dressed, perfectly passionate about gardening, and a broken bean!

What’s a softy former 4-H nerd to do, ask her when the bean broke? April? August? Did it matter? Can a taped bean plant even continue to grow? I should Google that….

The ppprrreesssuuuurrreeeee…

The ggguiiilllltttt….

Eeekkk, I crumbled.

I crumbled and wrote her a note about all of the things she did right, all of the wonderful things she was made of and all of the things she could do to improve her bean’s future…and then I gave her a red ribbon.

She smiled as I handed her the note, put her tiny arms around the bean pot and skipped over to her mother.

I melted in a big puddle on the ground and told myself it was for the best. A learning experience. She will come back next year with blue ribbon beans for sure…

but I may never sleep again.

I imagine you have never given much thought to the inside pressures of the average 4-H judge have you?

Well now you know.

And if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find my medication…

On bulls and husbands

Posted on July 29, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

See that foot up there? Yeah, it’s resting on the recliner right now, exactly where it and it’s friend, Lefty, are not supposed to be.

Where are they supposed to be? On the floor while I sweep something, put something in the laundry or rinse a dish or two in the sink.

Better yet, they should be in my grubby shoes while I push a mower outside, unpack the camper from our weekend in Yellowstone, or move a few more worthless items out of the garage.

I know, I know, that damn garage.

But it’s been a busy week at the ranch.

Well, more technically it’s been a busy week in town as the human inhabitants of the Veeder Ranch were pulled in a hundred different directions by their day jobs that include planning big events, helping establish new businesses, serving on committees, sitting in on important meetings, maintaining oil wells, delivering drinks, selling shoes, snuggling a baby and singing for their supper.

But there is no rest for the weary around here. Yes, we have jobs in town, but we have cattle out here too. And when your day job is heated and buzzing and full on busy, you can bet your fancy khakis the cows are getting out.

It’s all about timing.

So pops and I took the morning to saddle up and take off after a bull who was out visiting the sexy neighbor cows in the adjacent pasture. I will admit I took my time opening my eyelids and rolling my weary body out of the cocoon of my room, because although I love a good morning ride on the top of a horse, I was realistic about what was waiting for me outside my cozy doors.

It was what kept me lingering with slurpy sips on my morning coffee and taking the long way to the barn to stop and pull up unruly burdock and kick a couple cow turds…

because we were chasing a bull today.

Ah, man...

A single bull who made new girlfriends and settled into the clover in a new pasture.

A bull with attitude.

Because there’s no bull without attitude.

Isn’t that on a bumper sticker or something?

Anyway, I’ve been here before, behind a bull who has decided that the grass is greener and the ladies friendlier on the other side of the fence…so he hops right on over with no intentions of coming home.

Now, I brought my little camera along knowing full well there would be very little chance to whip it out, so the documentation of the bull we found standing a few yards away from the gate who spotted our smiling faces and immediately turned to run off with his women in the opposite direction, is a little patchy.

Forgive me, but when you’re heading up a steep, muddy, slippery hill at full speed to turn the cows who have no intention of turning it’s hard to take a good photo. Things get a little blurry.

But as I was taking direction from pops and recalling all the lessons I learned in similar situations like this growing up (i.e.: how to move a bull with a few cows in order to get him to cooperate, how not to push him too hard, how not to get him running, how to stay the hell out of the way, how to let the cow horse under you do what she does best and how not to lose the shirt tied around your waist while running at full speed after cows it turns out you didn’t really need to be running after in the first place) I got to thinking that the techniques used to move bulls are similar to the techniques I have been using on the man I call husband for years.

Yeah, I'm talking 'bout you...

Let me try to explain here.

See, husband and I have an ongoing struggle in our household when it comes to getting big tasks accomplished. The damn garage is a perfect example. We will agree that the garage needs to be cleaned out and torn down. Great. But from there it gets hairy. Because as soon as that statement passes my lips, I am out there waist deep in junk throwing it all over my back and out the door willy nilly like some cartoon character with no plan about where to go from there.

Husband resists this technique with his heart and soul. Because he likes to think it out, see the outcome seventy-five different ways, make a full fledged plan to get it started and then stand back and think some more before he proceeds, weeks later, to open the garage doors, pick up each item and turn it over in his hands a few times before deciding to toss it.

The same goes with closet organization, dishes, laundry folding, construction projects, yard work and any kind of purchase.

This behavior, however, is null and void when it comes to bringing home a new dog, as you have probably already figured out by the existence of the pug.

Ok. Mooooving right along.

I have known this man for a solid thirteen years and in those solid thirteen years this quality of contemplation when it comes to a task, big or small, has never wavered.

Oh, I have fought it, yes I have. Just like I have fought a bull who prefers to run the opposite way, take after your horse at full speed or stay in the brush, thank you very much. The outcome of the choice to argue, with bull or husband, is never good. In fact it usually results in a further run in the opposite direction, a sarcastic swipe at my ways of jumping the gun and at least double the time in the brush or the easy chair.

But after some time spent battling with man and beast I am finally beginning to see the light…and damn if that light hasn’t revealed that some of the rules are the same.

So wives I offer you these tips from a woman who has attempted to nudge the most unruly of the male species in the house and in the pasture only to come out on the other end with a bull through the gate and a husband filling garbage bags in the garage.

Grab your pencils and let’s get started with today’s lesson:

On bulls and husbands

The first tip is the most important….

1) If it’s your idea, find a way to make it his. If a bull is dead set on heading south and you want him to go west, let him go south. There’s no use in fighting it, eventually all those gates lead to the place you need to go.

2) Ask once. Ask nicely. Wait patiently. What kind male soul, man or beast, wouldn’t respond positively to that?

If this isn't a face filled with love and appreciation, show me a face that is...

Which leads me to…

3) Unless you want to be disappointed, at home or in the pasture, forget about deadlines.

Which will help you when dealing with the next tip…

4) Once he’s on it, let him do it his way, even if your way is easier/shorter/faster/smarter. In the pasture, as soon as the bull is heading in the right direction, your best bet is to stay back a bit, watch his head for any signs of straying, and let him go. He might weave a little, go up some nasty rocks or gnarly trees, but as long as he’s getting there, leave him be. Same goes with your man ladies.

But better than standing back is this…

5) Find some company that is moving in the right direction. To get a bull to move he needs his lady friends along for the walk. Same goes in the household. You want him to do something, help him for crying out loud! That, or just start the task yourself. I mean the best way I can get husband to fix that gutter is to pull out our giant ladder in an attempt to do it myself…

So there you have it, five simple rules that I have found to work to my benefit about 80% of the time. What about the other 20% you ask? Well ladies, that’s why we have rule number six…

6) When all else fails, let him stay in the brush…eventually he will get thirsty and come out.

Implement these this weekend and let me know your results…

Oh, and try not to lose your shirt while you work, because then all bets are off.

Happy Friday!

Winner, winner chicken….uh, never mind….

Posted on July 18, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Ok party people, weekend’s over. Back to work.

That’s the bad news.

The good news?

We have a winner!

And the other good news is that thanks to my lovely, compassionate and brave friends who decided to reveal their own garage, quonset, farmyard and basement rubble woes as part of Friday’sHot Hot Redneck Mess prize alert post not only have I discovered that I am not alone in the complete disaster that I have lurking outside my window, I got a few giggles, snorts and solid advice in the process.

And because each hoarding, junk/treasure collecting, farmyard cleanup, old school papers, naked husband painting in the garage, used toilet story is unique and different just like you, I decided the fair way to select the winner of the challenge was to put the names in my dirty Carhart cap and leave the winner up to chance and those Junk Gods I’ve been praying to.

And it looks like the Junk Gods have a favorite because they chose Holly. Sweet Holly who volunteered to come out to the ranch and hold my hand as I gently, boss, I mean, urge husband to give up the three wheeler, dirt bike, jet ski, pail full of nuts and bolts, washing machine, five of the six coolers, ball of twine, his old batman pajamas from the third grade etc, etc, etc…

Holly I know we are not close neighbors so we might have to postpone that trip, but I am going to tweak your next piece of advice a bit and talk to husband about paying me $25 per hour for my time on this project.

Then I’m going to close my eyes and wait for him to pick me up and drop me in the water tank.

Big Brown Dog, I fear you’ll have company soon…

Congratulations Holly, you have your choice of the following three matted 8X10 metallic prints to hang on your wall as a reminder that outside of the Veeder Ranch garage, North Dakota has some beautiful sights. Let me know if you’d like me to include a couple pairs of ice skates, a broken ladder or a rabbit cage at jessieveeder@gmail.com.

Wild Prairie Rose

North Dakota Badlands

Grass and Moon

Ok, now for more of the bad news.

I didn’t actually touch the damn garage this weekend.

Guilty of avoidance...

Don’t judge me, I had a higher calling.

We went camping instead.

We had to, I mean as much as I wanted to spend the entire 90 degree weekend hauling microwaves and washing machines and lawn ornaments out of the garage and to the garbage pit, sweat dripping down my back and pooling into a nice little puddle at the top of my butt crack, it was our annual Christmas in July with husband’s family, and well, I had no choice.

I had to go. I couldn’t let the in-laws down.

I mean, this little girl was waiting for me and what type of iron hearted woman would I be if I rejected this face?

And who would want to miss these moments of heart melting sweetness?

Besides, they were counting on me to soak in the lake, make a mass batch of margaritas, take a boat ride, try my balance on a massive floating log and, due to a miscalculated body launch, accidentally show the entire crew of in-laws my snow white butt cheeks, tube with my little niece, eat hot dogs, and hang out with the chickens…

Wait?

what?

Yup. The chickens went camping.

And I think that my in-laws and I might be the only people in the world who can utter that phrase with complete truth and honesty.

What? You act like you've never seen a chicken on a beach before...

Now, I am not sure where to go from here except to promise you I’ll get to the garage project this evening…

right after I write up my contract, locate my water wings, deliver papers to husband, and pull my ass out of the water tank…

And, you know, right after I finish the laundry.

Happy Monday lovelies!!!

A hot, hot redneck mess (Prize Alert!)

Posted on July 15, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

It’s Friday and it’s promising to be hotter than the blazes of the underworld out here this weekend. As the cool morning springs back up after a monsoon style rain last night and the sun pushes its way toward the middle of the blue sky, I feel like shedding layers…layers of blankets from my comfy bed, layers of clothing, layers of worry and layers of work on my to do list.

And what’s #1 on my to do list?

Cleaning out the damn garage. The damn garage that has been home to what some people thought was important stuff for a good twenty-plus years. I think it has been cleaned before, but with a leaking roof, crumbling doors and muddy floors, it’s time for the thing to go to its grave.

Not the garage, but a more pleasant view of the ranch. I can't bring myself to scare you with the actual evidence. You're welcome.

But some things don’t go down easily.

Oh, we have been shooting at it for a good long month, walking in there to start to tackle the process and then promptly walking out convincing ourselves there are more important things on that list: a horse that needs riding, a lawn that needs mowing, a weed that needs whacking. Once I even turned my butt around to tackle the laundry pile instead…and you know how I feel about laundry.

Yes, this is what we’re dealing with here people. It’s a disaster zone of old microwaves, bed frames, dressers, ice skates, thousands of unidentifiable tractor and truck parts, my dad’s old lunch box, swallow nests, spiders, deer antlers, gears, wire, a Christmas wreath, scrap wood, a jeep and a partridge in a pear tree.

I would like to blame this situation on my relatives, the ones who built this little specimen of disaster in the first place, but as we opened the door last week and began organizing piles of stuff into “keep,” “toss,” “give away,” and “what the hell is this?” it became quite clear that the problem did not lie in past use of the facility.

The problem was my husband…and a little bit my pops.

The culprits. Don't let their calm, cool and collected demeanor fool you because under those hats are plans that have spawned a monster...

Yup. I blame it on the boys. Because I refuse to take responsibility for the following:

One hundred coolers that seem to go missing when we are looking for a cooler…so apparently we have just purchased a new one…every year for the last five years.

A mini, yellow, homemade boat that has been out on the lake approximately four times, once involving me, husband, a fishing hole in the wilderness, a pickup stuck up to its nuts in gumbo, no cell service and a hike in flip flops up to the top of the nearest butte.

A microwave given to my mother as a proposal for marriage in the early 80s that was just recently exchanged for a newer model and placed in the garage, because…well, forget that it weighs all of 110 pounds, it still works, someone might use it someday and it has sentimental value dammit.

Three pairs of cross country skis from the same era as the microwave and one pair from the beginning of time.

A three-wheeler that showed up at our doorstep from the depths of a landfill somewhere. It might work someday. It. Might. Just. Magically. Work. One. Day. Until that day it will continue dying a slow death in the garage.

A dirt bike purchased by a handsome sucker who is certain that one day he will acquire the skills of John Travolta’s character in Phenomenon and breathe some life into what was, at one time, a fine machine. Until said sucker gets struck by lightning, the dirt bike will exist propped up against the garage.

A jet ski that “isn’t broken” but has served as the world’s largest lawn ornament for a good year now, waiting, too, on that lightning strike.

Five ladders that I am not about to climb.

Two washing machines whose motors are waiting to be attached to a grinder, inserted into another washing machine that doesn’t work, rigged up in a go cart or maybe applied in some way to help get that damn jet ski out on the water again and out of my life forever.

Help. Me.

Ok, ok, I will take responsibility for some of it. I mean among the rubble I did find 103 flower pots, six pairs of ice skates and my old purple, ice cream cone sleeping bag. But in my defense, if I remember right, at one time I had aspirations of landing a triple axel and heading to the winter Olympics like my good friend Nancy Kerrigan, and a girl needs back up skates for that. Also, I have full intentions of filling all of those pots some day with gorgeous, Martha Stewert approved flowers…and that sleeping bag was useful in protecting pops’ not yet out of the box 2004 Christmas gift meat smoker.

Shit. The quaint mystery and charm of the Flea Market loses all of its wonder when said Flea Market is in your front yard.

Actually I think it might turn into another term all together…one that begins with “Red Neck” and ends with “Ville.”

Sweet Martha where are you when I need you?

So I’ve decided in order to lift my spirits on this 90 degree cleaning day I would like to give something away. And I’m going to refrain from trying to convince you that you all need a new pair of ice skates, and old cooler and an almost working jet ski.

No, I love you too much (and I’m afraid I’m not that good a saleswoman). So instead I wanna give you a chance to win your choice of one of the following three metallic 8×10 matted photographs that celebrate the finer scenery in my backyard:

Wild Prairie Rose

North Dakota Badlands

Grass and Moon

All you need to do is cheer me up by sharing your own cleaning woes. Tell me I’m not the only Redneck woman. Tell me you too have two non-working washing machines and an old ice auger in your crumbling garage. Tell me I am not married to the only man hoarder, aspiring mechanic.

Tell me I’m not alone!!!

Share your story and I will put all of the names of the participants in one of my 103 empty flower pots and pick the winner on Monday.

And then say a little prayer to the junk gods that they will send down an angel to take this hot mess of a garage to heaven.

How a pug breaks his tail (and other shenanigans)

Posted on June 16, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

There’s a saying here at the ranch I use when something kinda shitty goes down. I use it to let that shitty little experience roll off my back and out of my mind in order to move on with the rest of the day. I shrug my shoulders, tilt my head and roll my eyes up to the sky and say, “Ah well, sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the pug.”

Yeah, pug. Right? You may have heard it from me here before.

I think it’s fitting, I mean in the other scenario, you know, the one with the bug? Yeah. Well, the bug gets squashed. Splat. Guts everywhere. Dead.

I use a 45 pound pug because it turns out a little better. I mean, you might lose an eye and develop a limp, but the pug, the pug will not be squashed.

So I like it.

And I used it on Monday evening when the boys and I went out to move horses around. It’s the middle of June, but in North Dakota, if you aren’t fortunate enough to have an indoor arena where you can continue working on your horses during rain, snow, sleet or hail unfortunately the first month of nice weather is the month you need to ride the kinks out of the horses.

We have pretty good horses, but I tell you after about five and a half months out to pasture they certainly have some wobbles. And my sorrel is no exception. See, apparently when the going gets rough (and by rough I mean making him step away from the barnyard, away from the other horses or just simply out of his little bubble of comfort) the dweeb lays down.

Sometimes, when you put your foot in the saddle the horse spins around, works on a nice rendition of what most would describe as a hissy fit and then tops it off by throwing himself to the ground. It’s a sight indeed and that kind of behavior can really hurt the horse as well as the rider. But after it’s done you would never even know the little scene occurred because the horse is plumb fine, head in line, lazy and calm as ever.

What the hell is it all about? We are not sure. It’s concerning. It means he’s confused or frustrated and we’re not communicating the right way, so we’re trying to figure it out.

And that’s what we were doing on Monday when I stepped on the dweeb only to step off again at my pop’s advice as the horse jumped and spun and exhibited all signs of a tantrum…

and I landed wrong on a dirt clump and exhibited all signs of a torn ankle.

And just like that, damn, I’m hobbled up for a bit.

Dweeb and dirt clump, hope you like being the windshield, because I am most definitely the pug.

Yes, I was the pug on Monday and continue to show signs of the pathetic but hearty creature as I limp around town and the barnyard like a 90-year-old lady, refusing to be left out of any kind of activity, ignoring it so it goes away.

I heard that works…

Anyway, last night I was out snapping photos, doing some chores and all around pretending my minor (but annoying) injury didn’t exist I discovered that the actual pug may have had an encounter with a windshield as well. As Captain Black Bean (yes that’s what husband calls him now that he’s missing an eye…it has something to do with a pirate…anyway) as Captain Black Bean went about his usual antics of tormenting Big Brown Dog for his stick, chasing the cats up trees and all around being a pain in the ass, husband noticed there was something a little off with our problem pet–and it wasn’t the lack of a right eye or the scrape of missing skin below it…nope. Nope.

It wasn’t the wood tick stuck in his ear or the fact that he looked like he ran into a wall (his face is supposed to look like that.)

Nope. It wasn’t his face at all.

It was his tail.

It should be wagging shouldn’t it? I mean, these are his favorite activities. Come to think of it, isn’t his tail curly? Doesn’t it roll up on his back, exposing his little pug-butt for all the world to see?

What the hell? What happened to his tail?

Before (but after an accidental swim)

After.

I kneeled down to take a closer look, tried touching the appendage to see if he was in pain.

Nope, not in pain. Annoyed? Yes. But not in pain.

I pulled on it a little, tried pushing it back in place like a curly-cue.

It flopped back down.

I tried making happy noises and scratching his ears.

No response from the tail.

I tried throwing a stick for big dog and watching the pug chase him, hock him and steal it away. It is his favorite activity, it makes his whole body bounce and wiggle and snort and move.

But this time the tail wasn’t following suit.

And it was quite clear then, upon his return with the stick, that the tail had indeed checked out, laying limp and lifeless along his butt and down his legs.

Ahh man! With each passing day at the ranch my cute and cuddly little pug looks more and more like a gremlin.

What kind of weird encounter with a near-death experience got him and his tail in such a predicament?

I was pondering that question as I popped a Tylenol PM in my mouth and hit the pillow, hoping for a sunrise that would bring a little less swelling in my ankle and a bit more curl to the pug’s tail when I was jarred awake by Big Brown Dog’s nose in my face and his arm-sized tail (which seems to be working fine thanks) slapping against the side of the bed.

He snorted.

I rolled over.

He whined.

I told him to get back.

The pug barked.

What the hell? The pug is up? He usually doesn’t wake until at least noon…

Figuring they must have had some bad chicken and it was a 1 am emergency I swung my legs over the bed, rubbed my eyes and limped towards the door, the dogs panting and wiggling at my heals.

I flung the door open into the moonlight and prepared to wait for them to do their business so I could let them back inside in order to avoid any shenanigans with the night creatures lurking in our coolies.

Well, it was all a blur from there. Because it turned out the night-mischief wasn’t only in our coolies, but also on our front deck. And the dogs, even locked in the comfort of this home, knew it. As soon as the wild air hit their noses a little black streak and a big brown blur flew out the door, around the corner of the deck and tore in after something.

There was growling, there was scratching, fur was flying, the deck was shaking, the house was trembling, something was barking and someone was screaming…

I peeked my head around the corner, afraid to look. Afraid to see the Boogy Man or that alien I’ve been waiting for getting ready to suck up our house and our brains and finally take us to outer space. I squeezed my eyes tight and opened them as they adjusted on two tiny human-like hands and a furry masked face looking into the eyes of the brown and black streak, holding onto the edge of the deck for dear life as his pudgy bottom half dangled helplessly over the six-foot drop to the ground–a drop the mischievous raccoon was not willing to leap into without a fight.

I gasped and from behind me leaped a wild-haired man with a gun in his hand. He was hollering as he pushed me aside and flew toward the action, stopping with his legs bent and spread apart, his eyes darting, his chest quickly rising and falling, his head moving from side to side, his gun in position, his arm-hair standing on end…

his bare ass glowing in the moonlight.

And just like that, at 1 am, the night was the windshield and we were all the pug.

I popped another Tylenol and limped back to bed, understanding now how, with circumstances like these, a pug might break his tail, a woman might twist a limb, a raccoon might stare death in the face while dangling helplessly by his claws…and how a good man might find himself up out of his bed at 1 am, standing atop a deck scouring the black landscape with nothing but a rifle in hand and his manhood, well, you know, dangling in the breeze.

(No photo available)

The Queen of the Barnyard

Posted on April 29, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I have added a new task to my morning routine at the ranch. Yes, while the world was watching a beautiful woman turn into a princess this morning, I was wiping my eye crusties, pulling on my vest and muck boots and heading out to the barn to play momma to two drooly, stinky, snotty, lovable, furry babies.

Oh, it’s a slightly less glamorous gig than what that princess on TV will face in her life…a few less diamonds, a lot more snot, but simply another day in the life of the Queen of the Barnyard.

Queen of the Barnyard. That’s me.

Yes, I received my crown and the important and necessary job of keeping these babies alive and growing up big and strong when our neighbor up the hill, who has been calving during one of the most treacherous, snowy, cold and wet springs in years, found these babies abandoned in the mayhem of the spring blizzards.

Our neighbor is one of those ranchers who has been running the place his father ran for his entire adult life. He is an expert when it comes to the cattle industry and takes the job very seriously. Consequently, he has spent the last few snowy months painstakingly feeding and checking his cattle in the sub-zero weather, blizzards, ice storms, rain and the occasional, merciful sunshine in order to keep the mommas happy and healthy so they will deliver happy and healthy babies in the spring.

Because that’s what good cattle ranchers do best, especially and most importantly during calving season. They watch. They pay close attention to their herd, taking in which cows are close to giving birth, who might be having trouble, what cows may need a little help in order to be a good momma and what babies need medicine or extra TLC

And these babies needed a little extra TLC indeed. One a twin whose mamma wouldn’t let him suck and the other abandoned all together, our neighbor took them into the barn, warmed them up and begin the milk replacing, bottle feeding regiment. But with all the other tasks our ranching neighbor is charged with during days of calving and feeding and the fact that our cattle don’t come to the Veeder Ranch until the grass is green, husband, pops and I decided to purchase the calves and start a little project of our own.

And I was dubbed Queen…

Not because I’m the most capable, intelligent, and fairest of them all…

but because I’m home.

And I have time to devote to a morning and evening calf feeding ritual.

So all rise for the Queen of the Barnyard looking ravishing in a yellow and gray flannel, saggy, drool soaked jeans and a Carhart cap–much more practical head-gear for royalty with these types of responsibilities.

Responsibilities like putting her morning coffee on hold to mix up giant bottles of warm milk replacer and head to the big barn where the babies are crying.

Important tasks like sliding open the barn door only to be rammed and head butted and stepped on and licked during the calves’ search for the bottles she holds tightly in each hand.

Yes, the Queen of the Barnyard puts one bottle in each hand (with the exception of when she has a camera) to feed these babies. Because she is an expert at time management and doesn’t want to leave anyone waiting (or deal with the repercussions that would occur while feeding one calf and fending off the other with her free royal arm and corresponding leg…the results sure to be painful and sloppy)

But the Queen of the Barnyard isn’t all business. Oh no she isn’t. She realizes that she is these babies’ only link to the outside world and she must teach them to be calves. So when her subjects are finished drinking she distracts them from their instinct to ram her repeatedly with their noses until she flees to the house by tossing the bottles aside to begin the ritual of demonstrating to the babies what it looks like to run and buck.

She begins by running as fast as she can to distance the needy animals’ noses from her royal butt. She then launches her body half-way across the length of the corral in a leap, lands both feet in the dirt and then finishes it off with a jump and a kick.

Hands on hips the Queen waits for the response.