Despite the hostility I harbor for the recent sub-zero temperatures, I do believe this season comes with gifts, and I’m not talking about the ones that hang out under the tree.
And besides, things are looking up. Today it got up to a balmy -5.
Taking time to enjoy a snow day
by Jessie Veeder
12-8-13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com
This week’s column coming at ya from sunny Florida. Yup, we’re still here with the nieces meeting princesses, getting splashed by Shamu and risking our lives navigating through the masses who have also decided to celebrate Thanksgiving with Mickey and friends.
This is adventure when you’re 4 and 7 and 10.
Back home at the ranch we had a few
adventures of our own…
Sunday Column: Sometimes nature gets a bit too close
By Jessie Veeder
12-1-13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com
Driving a familiar highway a few week’s back I was reminded of my former life.
Between the white lines that led me on a straight, flat stretch east across the state and back again in mid-November, I was greeted by passing pickups with blaze orange caps resting on the dash.
Suddenly I was five years old sitting on the passenger’s side of my dad’s pickup, back when pickups didn’t have back seats, barely tall enough to see that landscape as it stretched out before me, bringing us closer and closer to the ranch for hunting season.
When I sat down to write this column that ran today in a couple newspapers in my home state, one out east, one here in the west, it was going to be about the time in my life my family didn’t live on the ranch and how I used to take every chance I got to be my dad’s sidekick, to crawl in the passenger’s side and take that five hour drive to gramma’s.
For harvest.
For cattle shipping day.
For hunting season.
I was going to tell you all about the time when I was five or six when that pickup broke down on a lonely stretch of that highway in the middle of a nasty blizzard, before cell phones and gadgets that connect us and make us safer.
It was the first time I remember staying in a hotel. I called it an “apawtment”
I couldn’t say my “R’s.”
I didn’t know the difference between an apartment and a hotel.
I didn’t know the level of my dad’s anxiety, having a kid out on a stretch of highway, broke down, no heater, no help, in sub-freezing temperatures.
And I didn’t know that it was likely my parent’s couldn’t afford a breakdown, let alone an impromptu hotel stay.
All I knew was that I was on an adventure.
But as I sat down to recall what it was like to climb in the passenger’s seat as a happy little girl and attempt to measure time in miles, the story I wanted to tell transformed from my recollection of a breakdown on Highway 2 to the realization that the sum of my life is made up of a string of memories, stretching long and straight between tall grass in the ditches and appearing before me like that highway moving off toward the setting sun.
Coming Home: Childhood homes bring back ghosts no matter how long we’re away
by Jessie Veeder
12-24-13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com
There are many best parts of living back at the ranch.
The familiarity of it all, the nostalgia of the things that surrounded me as a kid growing up wild.
Watching the sunrise out the big windows in the morning and the deer come out from the trees to water in the dam.
Endless trails, endless unexpected adventures.
Endless expected adventures.
And endless ways to test my patience, my capabilities, my creativity and my muscles.
But the best is simple.
The best is that I’m surrounded by all of these things…the big blue sky, the old oak trees, the bullberries, the tall grass, the big red barn, the cattle and the horses in the hills.
I’m surrounded by these things that I love, but I love them even more because I’m also surrounded by family.
And family, above all of it, is our greatest gift.
Coming Home: “Miss Veeder” once more with sister back in town
by Jessie Veeder
11/17/13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com
This town we drive to for groceries and work, it buzzes and hums and creaks and groans and crashes and grows and creeps in on the neighbors and the wheat fields and cattle pastures every day.
And it’s filled. Filled to the brim with industry and progress, locals and non-locals, passers-through, brilliant minds and lost souls, people looking for a place and people who’ve found their place long ago.
It consumes us. This oil industry. The way that it kicks up dust. The way it brings wealth and eats up the landscape and changes the horizon. Some say it’s bad. Some say it’s good. Most understand that nothing comes without a price.
Nothing is simply black or white.
I allow myself to ponder it because it’s fascinating and it’s my life.
And the world seems to be pondering it too, grabbing for the stories so that they might be the mind to reveal some sort of hidden truth in the one place in America the economy is booming. The one place in America small towns are bursting at the seams.
The one place in America there is an abundance of hope that if we can all just keep working we might pull ourselves up and be able to take root and stay planted or grow wings and fly the hell out of here.
Me, I’m on the side of the roots.
So I spend my days telling my story and listening for others’. What I see in Boomtown, what I think we look like–mothers and men, children and teachers, fifth generation farm families and oil industry professionals, young men with big plans, good men gone bad, bad men starting over and women on their own, leaders and preachers and helpers and people in need, lonely people, happy people, fed up people, inventive people, people in love, people who’ve lost and people who will. not. give. up. My best friends, my husband, these kids’ future–this is not what the world gets to see in the headlines.
Between tragic car wrecks and the dramatic stories that beg to be told of the nameless men who’ve arrived in the wild, wild west in search of their cut of black gold there are people, people like us, building lives and drinking beer, meeting up for a movie, holding open doors, buying steak for dinner and loving each other.
Coming Home: Living in a town of labels, assumptions
by Jessie Veeder
11-10-13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com
Download my song “Boomtown” on iTunes
or listen at
www.jessieveedermusic.com
Watch: Jessie Veeder’s Boomtown
There are Veeders in Texas, down there where the sun shines a little longer, a little hotter, and it doesn’t snow much.
Pops’ little brother moved his family down there when his oldest daughter and I were in the phase of our childhood where we wanted everyone to think we were twins. We wore the same biker shorts and Coca-Cola t-shirt. We put our hair up with the same scrunchie. Our skin turned the same kind of brown in the summer. We were best friends.
As soon as they unpacked their bags under that big Texas sky I begin making plans with our other cousin S who lived on a farm on the southern edge of the state to save up our 4-H money so that we might make our first plane ride to visit cousin M before she developed a new accent.
We wrote letters back and forth explaining our annoyance at our younger siblings, our mutual affection for Reba McEntire and Vince Gil, our struggle to discover any kind of athletic capabilities in our gangly bodies and, like good farm kids, of course, the weather.
At the end of each letter we reported how much money we had saved for our adventure down south.
P.S. I have saved $34.67 for TX adventure…
Forty-seven long letters and a year later, miraculously and undoubtedly with a fair amount of secret financial aid from our parents, cousin S and I stood in a small airport in the middle of North Dakota, stuffing our wallets and snacks into our fanny packs before hugging our parents goodbye.
We were ten or eleven, on our own, and headed to Texas.
My memories of that trip were some I have kept with me throughout my life. I look back on it now and understand that it wasn’t likely either one of our families had the spare cash to help a couple kid cousins hop a plane for an extended sleepover, but somehow it was more than that.
Our parents knew it meant that time spent like this would lay the foundation for a relationship we might feel inclined to keep throughout our lives, regardless of the miles that had suddenly been put between us.
Veeder Cousins: (that’s me on the left and my twin cousin next to me. Cousin S, my TX travel companion, is that tall boy in the middle)
We spent that week exploring Ft. Worth swimming in a warm Texas lake, riding a Texas sized roller coster, telling ghost stories, sleeping in a tent in the backyard and having our first taste of BBQ brisket.
When we boarded the plane back North, cousin S and I were sun kissed and tired, more grown up and more connected to a family that would spend the next twenty years under that Texas sun.
Since that initial trip I’ve been back to visit our Texas family for weddings and singing gigs booked so that we might have an excuse to all sit on the porch together, remember, catch up and laugh a little.
It’s interesting how, wherever your family resides, a piece of it becomes yours too.
Funny how the miles don’t seem to matter when your hearts beat the same way…
Coming Home: Miles don’t matter to brothers who grew up together
by Jessie Veeder
11-3-13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com
Texas sky…
I tried to change my name to Stephanie when I was in kindergarten. A little boy named August raised his hand during sharing hour and asked to be called Gus, and, well, I thought that meant in kindergarten we got to change our names. So I raised my hand and declared that everyone must now call me Stephanie.
My sweet teacher looked at me, no doubt trying to stifle her laughter at the little weirdo before her, and calmly declared she thought Jessica was a nice name and I should keep it.
I was bummed. This was the 80s after all and Stephanie was the name of my favorite character on Full House. But I carried on as Jessica until second grade when we moved to the ranch and, struck with a sudden urge to shorten things up, I introduced myself to my new country school classmates as Jessie.
Everyone should call me Jessie.
Our names are more than just our signatures on paper or a word on a tag stuck to the lapels of our shirt at a meeting. Did I look like a Stephanie? Well I’m not sure, but I’m thankful Mrs. Schaffer didn’t allow me to undo the name I was given with a raise of the hand at five years old.
And so I stayed Jessican Blain Veeder.
Jessica after the woman on “The Man From Snowy River” (did I mention it was the 80’s?)
Blain for my mother’s maiden name.
Veeder for my father’s side.
Fast forward twenty-some years and for as much as I wanted to be Stephanie at five years old, upon my marriage I couldn’t bear part with the names I was given, no matter the tradition or how much I lived and respected my new husband and his family.
This week’s column explains why a woman like me might choose to live out a life with four names…
Coming Home: Holding on to family name important
October 27, 2013
Fargo Forum
http://www.inform.com
On Thursday night after a morning of rounding up cattle, an afternoon of office work and an evening of photography, I threw some clothes in a bag, squashed a cap over my tangled hair and pulled out of the muddy drive in the dark toward the highway to make my way the 180 miles to the big town for a meeting early the next morning.
In the box of the pickup were five giant rolls of orange electrical wire we purchased last week for the garage project, a bucket of grain and an antique chair I used during the evening’s photo shoot, but neglected to bring into the house.
In the back seat was Husband’s fireman’s uniform, three to ten half empty bottles of water or diet coke or Gatorade, a copy of Marie Claire Magazine from last May, a hand saw, an extension cord, a blanket, the muck boots I wore to get from the house to the pickup, a variety of tools, three to-go cups, a couple pamphlets on patio blocks from the lumber yard, a half-eaten bag of pretzels, a winter cap, a regular cap, a pair of fencing gloves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
And then there was me with my duffle bag packed in a half-hearted attempt to be prepared and convince someone around the table at the board meeting that I have my shit together enough to at least take the construction supplies out of the pickup before coming to town.
(Then I made a mental note to pull the Tunneau cover over the evidence on my next stop for diesel.)
I sat down at the table, only fifteen minutes late on account of two previous and failed attempts at locating the correct venue and within moments the hotel manager arrived to announce that someone in a black pickup was blocking a semi-truck trying to exit the parking lot.
I slumped my shoulders and announced to the room of professors, business owners, and put-together professionals that I would be right back.
Sometimes it’s hard to fit it all in out here thirty miles from the nearest civilized community when fitting it in means scheduling hours of time traveling down the road.
Sometimes it feels like half of my life is spent behind the wheel accumulating miles, sunflower seeds and opinions derived from endless talk radio on my way to pick up groceries, get a hair cut, get to a show or get my tooth fixed.
Because, despite my best efforts, the professionals in my life don’t seem to be too keen on holding board meetings around my kitchen table and contrary to some romantic beliefs, this country living thing doesn’t mean we grow our own vodka out here among the cow poop and scenic hills.
No, sometimes we need to make the three-hour trip to the big town to meet face to face and sometimes we have to go even further to get that special giant bright orange electrical wire for the garage project, and sometimes we take the same vehicle we just used to grain the horses and respond to a fire call to stock up on the essentials.
Like donuts.
And hairspray.
And vodka.
You’ll have to understand this if you ever ask me for a lift and find yourself moving a saw horse, an Elmo doll, a microphone stand, a leather jacket and a bag of Cheetos off the seat to get in and get buckled up.
Because with all those miles between me and civilization, you never know when you’re going to get hungry, be called to help with a construction project, put on an impromptu concert or entertain a three-year old.
And a girl needs to be prepared.
Coming Home: Rural living’s romantic notions dashed by reality of time on the road
by Jessie Veeder
10/20/13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com
On Friday it rained relentlessly. I woke up in the dark at 6 AM to the sound of drops pounding on my windows. I drove out of this place kicking up mud under that weeping sky and headed out toward the big town and back again.
It never let up.
And then the wind came and it blew that rain sideways and covered my head while my boots sunk in to the slippery on my way to hunker down under the safety of my roof.
The day before the sun shone bright and clear and the season looked and felt like the photographs you see on all of the Western calendars for October.
24 hours later the scene was drenched.
We expect this. Rain in October. Snow in October. Heat in October. Fire in October.
Anything can happen under this prairie sky. And that’s the beauty and the tragedy of it all.
Coming Home: Looking for mercy from the prairie sky
by Jessie Veeder
10/13/13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com
Want to help the South Dakota ranchers? Here are some ideas:
The South Dakota Cowgirl
How can you help?
http://www.thesouthdakotacowgirl.com
Heifers for South Dakota
Pledge a heifer (a bred yearling or a replacement quality weanling) for a rancher in South Dakota
Give to the cause today!
Rancher Relief Fund
On Mondays Little Sister calls me to see what I’m doing on Friday.
Or Saturday.
Or Sunday.
My little sister is a planner and she likes to know well in advance that she’ll have something to look forward to at the end of a long week teaching kindergartners to hola hoop in gym class.
So she might come over to help move cows, or have a margarita, to gorge on popcorn and watch a chick flick, play guitar or take a walk in the trees with our cameras.
Or we might go to town and dance to a band. Plan our next trip, make a big meal or just hang out in the kitchen catching up and watching funny videos of cats on YouTube.
Like me, Little Sister is easily amused.
When I moved back to the ranch for the first time after we got married seven years ago, Little Sister was still in high school, getting ready to graduate and make her way in the world. I got to go to her volleyball games, see her win Homecoming Queen, take pictures of her and her prom date and help at her graduation party.
When she left home I would go and visit her on the other side of the state and we would hang out at her favorite restaurants, catch her favorite bands, shop for clothes we couldn’t afford (while convincing one another that each purchase was an investment), go to movies and just be sisters.
Then I would head back to wherever it was I was living at the time and miss her face.
Well, now I don’t have to miss her face anymore. The changes happening in our Little Boomtown have made our once small town a enticing place to come back to work. It happened with Big Sister and now it happened with Little Sister and so, despite the odds, here we are, all together in a 30 miles radius, just close enough to borrow those shoes I helped her pick out, pick up Little Man for the weekend, swing by mom’s store with coffee and come over with guacamole and chips and be the kind of friends sisters were meant to be after they grow up and stop fighting so much.
I try to explain what it means to me to be close enough to these sisters of mine to watch them accomplish goals, fall in love, raise a family and be a close knit part of our own again.
I try to explain…
Coming Home: Rejoicing as little sister returns home
by Jessie Veeder
10/6/13
Fargo Forum
www.inforum.com
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 