Sunday Column: Stories ride in on Pops’ Trail 90

Posted on September 15, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Here’s Pops.

He’s in a pink helmet. It’s not his usual get-up, as you know, but we figured he would need it.

See, for the past few weeks he’d been recalling dangerous childhood memories of the time way back in the day when he and his brother owned a ’75 Honda Trail 90 and rode like hell’s fury up and down and around the buttes of this place.

Yup.

There are stories about ramping things, checking cows, running around with the neighbor kids up the road and, well, concussions. There were a few concussions.

Just the other night he confessed that, before he was old enough to be issued an actual drivers license, he and his friend drove that damn bike thirty miles to town and back again to catch a football game or something, he can’t remember.

It didn’t matter anyway, by the time they actually made it (it took a little while you know, driving at top speeds of 35 MPH and flinging themselves in the ditch’s tall grasses every time a neighbor drove by) it was past dark and whatever event they were trying to catch was long over by then.

Those are the stories we get from Pops. They’re good ones.

And the reason we did what we did.

Coming Home: Stories ride in on Pops’ old motorcycle
by Jessie Veeder
September 15, 2013
Fargo Forum
www.inforum.com

Happy Trail 90 Pops.

Happy Trails to You.

Thursday Throwback: Gumbo Sliding.

Posted on September 12, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

In honor of throwback Thursday and all of the new Veeder Ranch followers, I wanted to share with you one of the first stories I wrote on this blog. For readers new to my shenanigans, it might help you understand what it felt like for me to spend my first summer back on my family’s ranch under the buttes as an adult. For those who have been with me for my long haul of misadventures (Three whole summers now! Thanks for hanging in there and I love you!) this will be a testament to how much I’ve matured since then

…yeah…

Something like that.

Anyway, that first summer I spent in my grandmother’s little brown house was romantic and whimsical and nostalgic. Everything that surrounded me was so familiar–the smell of the clover, the pink dust from the scoria road, the sound of the horses grazing in the pasture outside my bedroom window, the way I can always find a cow pie to step in–yet I felt like I was experiencing it for the first time.

And, because I didn’t have a job lined out, because the plan was to take a breath, I had some time to poke around in the barn and look for new baby kittens, to pick wildflowers, to make mud pies, ride my horse bareback, keep the grass mowed, kick the cows out of the yard, splash in big puddles, and, well, slide down the gumbo hills in the pouring rain.

In my pajamas.

…and tell you all about it.

Every thrilling, agonizing minute.

When I am asked to speak at events I often read this post as a way to introduce the audience to the woman they’re dealing with for the next 15 to 45 minutes. I read it not only to introduce myself and to entertain, but to remind them (and me) that regardless of the outcome, regardless of how much we’ve learned about keeping our composure, keeping out of trouble and keeping out of the hospital since we turned into adults, sometimes all we need is to allow ourselves the freedom to act on impulse.

And fling our bodies down a muddy hill because, well, we think it could be fun.

So I invite you to take a minute to read about a silly grown woman who lost her head for a moment, but never regretted it.

And more than likely will never do it again…unless there’s lots of tequila involved.When spontaneity strikes, at least put on pants…
From the archives
August 10, 2010

Peace love and ointment,

Jessie

Why I’m here.

Posted on September 10, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

We were out late last night working cattle.

And by late, I mean after dark.

And by after dark I mean, a sliver of a moon, a thousand stars, 50 head of black cattle, five people and one flashlight.

No, it’s not all raspberry picking, sunflowers and margaritas on the deck out here.

Sometimes we have to get Western.

And when all available cowboys and cowhands have jobs and responsibilities in the sweet and useful hours of the day, sometimes we find ourselves chasing the sun while we’re chasing the cows.

It’s difficult. Since moving back to the ranch two summers ago I’ve learned a lot of things. I’ve learned how to can a tomato, tile a shower, where to find a missing pug, how make a meal from what I have in my pantry because I’ve got no choice, I’m not driving to town, how to kill a burdock plant, what time of day makes the most magical photos and how long I can go without taking a shower before the neighbors start to complain…

But above all of that, mostly I’ve learned there aren’t enough hours in the day.

And I don’t know how Pops has done it all these years.

Ranching is a full time job. It’s not just about watching them graze in the pasture and riding through them like the Man from Snowy River every once in a while to get your cowboy fix. You have to feed them, move them, watch the water, watch for illness, doctor, move them again, find them when they’re out, fix the fence, move them, fix the fence, patch up corrals, bring them home, let the bulls out, get the bulls in, roundup, doctor, wean the babies, fix the fence, get a plan for hay, move the hay, feed the hay, break the ice on the stock dam and check them every day.

My dad has always had two full time jobs, one of them being ranching. His goal was to keep this place in the family and, during that time, that was the only choice. He would come home from work in the winter and I would bundle up in my Carharts and we would roll a bale out for the cattle in the freezing cold, nearly dark landscape. Sometimes I would drive the pickup while he scooped out cake or grain for a line of cattle trailing behind in the falling snow.

In the spring we would drive out and watch for calves being born. I would sit in the pickup as he braved the wrath of momma while he tagged and checked the baby.

There was more than one time that momma won the battle.

Summers were spent riding horses and moving pastures.

Fall was roundup and time spent in the pickup on the way to the sale barn.

And then he’d do it over again.

Every memory of being a side-kick ranch kid was one I hold close to me as part of my makeup, no matter the fact that I likely wasn’t one bit of help, except maybe that driving part.

And I like to think I’m good company.

I’ve been bucked off, had my fingers smashed, broken bones and cried out of frustration when facing a seemingly impossible task.

Ranching is not a job for the weak, and often I wondered (and I still wonder) if I’m made up of the things my father is made up of.

Why all of those years of long hours in town and late nights? Why not a house in town with a lawn, beer with the guys on Friday nights, golf on Saturday?

I never asked him because it’s a stupid question.

I’ve never asked him because I know the answer.

I’ll tell you here, but I have to do it quickly, because in an hour, we have to be home from town and saddled up. We have to bring more cows home and it’s gets dark earlier every night.

So here’s what he’d say:

This is it for me. Give me the beaches of the Caribbean, the steep mountains of Montana, give me perfect city streets laid out and predictable, give me the cactus and mysterious heat of the dessert, give me the shores of the mighty Missouri, the fjords of my grandparents’ homeland and I will say they are good.

I will tell you they’re beautiful.

I have seen them and I believe that’s true.

But I would not trade one day out in these pastures for a lifetime on those beaches, even if it means broken tractors and working until midnight with no light but the stars.

And I don’t know what else to say about it except this is my home and I will do what it takes to make sure that it stays the truth.

And that’s why I’m here.

Sunday Column: Happy canning

Posted on September 8, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Yesterday Husband and I cried together. We stood in the kitchen and tears streamed down our faces, my mascara left black streams down my cheeks. We sniffled, blinked, blubbered, sighed.

We were a mess.

We were slicing onions.

Because Pops had delivered thirty-seven pounds of garden tomatoes to our house and they needed to be dealt with.

And it was raining, so I had no excuse.

I dealt.

So I Googled “blanching” and took out every mixing bowl, pot, knife, seasoning, herb and vegetable I owned and there was no turning back. We were making salsa.

salsa

Last weekend it was the plums. All five gallons of them.

There was no crying, but there was seventy-five steps, a foot stomp or two and a mishap with the order of things that resulted in a a good batch of runny syrup.

I blame myself.

On Friday my friend M tried to offer me seventy pounds of zucchini. She gave me twenty-four recipe ideas to try to convince me to take it off her hands.

Zucchini was coming out of her ears she said.

I had to take it, she said.

I will never understand zucchini I said.

Tis the season.

Coming Home: Canning season just means more questions
By Jessie Veeder
9/8/13
Fargo Forum/Dickinson Press
www.inforum.com

This is what I’m saying.

But the salsa turned out great. And the jelly is sweet.

I’m not so sure about the runny syrup, but I’m gonna eat it, because that was a lot of damn work and to hell if I’m wasting it.

Happy canning and stuff.

Oh, and good luck with that zucchini.

To the fields…

Posted on September 6, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

And now an ode to late summer fields.

To wheat fields, golden and rolling.

To sunflower fields, bright and following the sun.

To hay fields, dotting the landscape in preparation for winter.

To oil fields, kicking up dust and fueling our world.

When a squirrel becomes a turkey…

Posted on September 4, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

On Sunday morning I woke up to a sort of screeching, clicking, weird throaty sound coming from outside my open bedroom window.

When something squawks and makes a ruckus up there in the tree tops I assume it’s that damn squirrel. He’s always gathering acorns and he makes like a really big deal about it, as if he’s the only squirrel who’s working.

I bet his friends think he’s annoying too.

Anyway, I was groggy, sleeping in a bit after a weekend of singing and late nights. I thought to myself, wow, that squirrel is sounding a little off, like, he’s got laryngitis or something.

Except I wasn’t quite sure about the diagnosis.

Then I wasn’t quite sure it was a squirrel really.

Because it wasn’t.

I stretched and rolled over to take a look and thought, huh, that squirrel has sure grown…into a turkey.

Yup. I guess we have wild turkeys now. Like a lot of them. They come gobbling down from the coulee in the morning to see what’s shaking by the house.

All fifteen or so.

And they’re brave. Because we have a bobcat type animal, remember? And that bobcat type animal is brave too. She’s brave and like not even close to the size of a turkey. She’s more like the size of a pretty small cat, despite her wild pedigree. But it doesn’t matter, she flings her body at them anyway. Like launches herself, full force, paws up, claws out, teeth showing with no regard for what she might do if she actually latched on to one of those things.

I’d like to see that. The damn cat clinging to the back of a turkey as it screeches and flops to safety in the tree outside my window. I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened.

Good Lord it can get weird out here sometimes.

Anyway, I rolled out of bed to take a look after Husband declared the cat attack. I wanted to see for myself the shenanigans. I wanted to catch a glimpse of these turkeys.

I squinted and shaded my sleepy eyes with my hand and counted…one….two…three…

Six flew and flopped out of my tree…

And one on the roof.

Pooping.

And it’s the same story this morning.

If you need me I’ll be Googling “stuffing recipes”…

As simple as a plum.

Posted on August 28, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Western North Dakota grows wild plums. In the patches of brush where the poison ivy sneaks and the cows go to get away from the flies, they start as blossoms on the thorny branches and, under the hot sun, turn from green in early July to red to a dark purple bite-sized berry just waiting to be picked in the beginning of autumn.

Wild plums mean summer is almost over. They mean roundup is on its way. They mean sucking on pits and spitting them at your little sister. They mean scratches from branches on a detour for a snack on the way to get the bull out of the trees.

They mean Pops’ stories of grampa sitting at the table in the winter dipping into a jar of canned wild plums , drenching them in cream and stacking the pits neatly on the table.

They mean memories of grandma’s jelly on peanut butter toast.

They mean reassurance that sweet things can grow in brutal places.

They mean a passing surprize on our way through a pasture and coming back later with the farm pickup to fill up a bucket, me squished in the middle seat between my husband and my dad, the Twins playing on the radio as we bump along on prairie trails that haven’t been under a tire in months looking for that magical patch of fruit, wondering out loud if we could of dreamed it.

Laughing at the thought.

Wild plums mean listening to the two men banter as they pick and reach and gather like little boys, making plans for the best way to fill our bucket.

“Shake the tree, we can get the ones on top.”

“Keep ’em out of the cow poop…poop plums are no good.”

“Are you eating them Jess. Hey, no eating!”

“I’ve never seen a patch like this. Jessie, you can make so much jelly!”

Yes. I could. With the 6 gallons of plums we picked last night standing in the bed of the pickup, ducked down in the clearing where the cows lay, scaling along the edges of the trees, I could make jars of jelly, pies, pastries and syrups to last until next plum picking season.

But even if I didn’t. Even if we did nothing more than feed those wild plums to the birds, it wouldn’t matter. The magic of wild and pure things is in their discovery and the sweet reminder that happiness can be as simple as a wild plum patch.

30 things I know at 30

Posted on August 23, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

In two days this little weirdo right here will turn 30 years old…

Yes, who would have thought that little potbellied girl squished in a leotard would ever officially lean over into full grown adulthood with no excuse now for any immature mistake that involves a bad tattoo, too much tequila or a snap judgment purchase on a shirt with sequins.

Goodbye 20s. I bid you a fond farewell.

Lately I’ve been picking up the magazines that come to me coated in dust from the big truck traffic streaming down our pink road, taking note on how Glamour, Redbook and Better Homes and Gardens somehow lose the glossy hope of good advice and female inspiration when I have to smear the dirt off to reveal Jennifer Aniston’s perfect face next to the promise to “look and feel younger.”

Perhaps I’m a bit more skeptical now that I’m older. Because come on now, I’m only 30, but how many times can I be told what jeans I should wear for my body type, what cream I should use on my face, what it takes to have it all and what makeup will cover up the zits that were supposed to go away after I hit my 20s.

I picked up one such magazine this week and flipped to an article that seemed relevant to me. A beautiful actress had some advice for me about turning 30. Her “Top 10 dos and don’ts” were fine. I get it. Don’t freak out if you’re not as accomplished as your friends, do be a good person, don’t get plastic surgery, do travel as much as you can, don’t just marry anyone, don’t just have kids with anyone, do learn something new, don’t live in the past and do have lots of sex.

Alright.

But I wasn’t enlightened.

My cousin, sitting pretty well in the middle of her 30s, told me to shut it when I was whining to her about getting older. (She’s one of my favorites so she gets to tell me to shut it. It’s a lot of the reason why she’s one of my favorites.) Anyway, she said her thirties have been her best years. She said she finally knows what she wants to do with her time, who she loves, what she likes, and pretty much the type of person she is.

She’s comfortable in her skin and confident enough with her own weirdness to enter an Elvis impersonating contest and perform her best hip gyrations in front of thousands of people at her company’s major national corporate gathering. She’s an entertainer. She’s funny. And she won.

See why I love her?

So I’ve been thinking as I creep up into a new chapter, what it is that I’ve learned about life and love during the past twelve years of adulthood, seven years of marriage and seven moves, two major home improvement projects, one long and unforgiving music career, a few entrepreneurial endeavors and countless glasses of wine along the way?

What do I really want to see when I open the pages of that women’s magazine?

I want honesty. Weird cousin honesty and a picture of a woman who even remotely looks like the kind of women I know and admire.

My gramma doing one of her favorite things.

I want to know what they know, and I’m not talking about how to make your momma’s jello salad or how to stay wrinkle free. I’m talking how we move forward in keeping a life that’s balanced without losing ourselves in expectations and worry and work.

So I decided, for my own benefit, and maybe for yours, to write down what I know now while I make a promise to myself to keep listening and watching.

Here it is, on the eve – eve of my 30th birthday, I give you:

30 Things I’ve learned in 30 years of living:

1. When you’re younger you expect your community to take care of you. I know now that it’s our responsibility to take care of the community. It is our home and it should be treated that way. Organize it, sweep it up, clean the windows, bake some cookies and invite people to come over, sit down, have a visit and play with the kids.

2. Art is as chance to see what life looks like and sounds like and feels like through one another’s eyes. If we don’t encourage music to be played, singing at the top of our lungs, dancing with abandon, painting with all the colors, we are ignoring the most magical and interesting part of ourselves, a part that I like very much, the part that reassures us that life beautiful and encourages us to tell our stories. Because even the sad parts have colors that move you or a melody that sweeps you up.

3. I used to think that love was enough. It turns out love goes a lot better mixed with kindness, respect, laughter, humility and a nice warm meal together once in a while. So maybe loving is just the easiest part…

4. Coffee. Never. Run. Out. Of. Coffee.

5. A girl needs a dog.

6. My mom was right. My sisters did become my best friends. Just like she told me they would when I was slamming my bedroom door. My mom’s been pretty much right about most things.

7. There will always be more work, more things to build, more fences to fix, more stories to write and more deadlines to butt our heads against. When there isn’t we will make it so, because as much as anything, living’s in the work.

8. Carrots taste best with a little garden dirt stuck in the cracks. Same goes for all vegetables actually.

9. Some people struggle to have what may have come easy to you. Think of this when you say your hellos and work up your small talk. Sensitivity and compassion are qualities every human could use more of.

10. Learning to cook does not make you a housewife, a stereotype, or some sort of overly domesticated version of yourself. It makes you capable. Same goes with laundry, lawn mowing and hanging a damn shelf on your own.

11. I always thought I would grow up and somehow doing the dishes would be an automatic, unassuming chore that I won’t mind anymore. Turns out that’s not true. No one likes doing the dishes.

12. When you’re lost, look for the ten year old version of yourself. She’s in there. When you find her do what she would do. It will make all the difference.

13. On Christmas, feed the animals first…and a little extra.

14. Always wear proper footwear. And by proper, I mean practical and, yes, most of the time practical means cute. You know what I’m saying.

15. Gray hair will happen. When it does, think “Someday I’ll let it grow out Emmylou Harris” and you will feel better, even if you don’t have the slightest intention.

16. John Prine, Johnny Cash, Johny Walker, John Wayne and John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. Five men that can get you through most anything.

17. There will always be something growing mold in my fridge because I just can’t seem to prioritize enough to pay attention to that sort of thing.

18. If you don’t know what to do next, just do something.

19. You can tell yourself there’s a reason for everything. It helps to ease the heartbreak and loss and suffering. Tell yourself. Believe it. It’s likely true. But know that sometimes it’s ok to think that life’s not fair, because sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it sucks.

20. I’m capable of carrying much heavier loads, I just have to remember to ask myself to try.

21. My best songs are not yet written, and that’s the thing that keeps me writing.

22. Summer will always be too short. Winter will always be too long. We will always wonder where the time went.

23. I. Can. Say. No. (Just give me a moment).

24. Wear what you like. You’re going to regret it in ten years regardless. Same goes with your hair cut.

(note: I didn’t necessarily want to wear this, but I have no explanation for the hair.)

25. Home is where you say it is. It’s not more complicated than that.

26. Spending time apart is as important as spending time together.

27. Momentum is everything. We are never stuck and there is always something we can change about our circumstance.

28. I’ll take a wildflower over a rose. Every time.

29. It’s better to admit you’re wrong than to talk louder in an attempt to convince everyone you’re right.

30. There’s never going to be enough time, but I won’t be angry. It’s not time’s fault. He never promised us anything.

Cheers to 30 years and working every day to be a better human being.

See ya tomorrow for margaritas on the deck….

Oh, and one more. Never, ever squeeze the cat. Or put a hamster in a purse. I learned those things early and I think they might be worth mentioning…

Ok then.

Peace, Love and Happy Birthday to Me,

Jessie

Sunday Column: Holding on is the best part…

Posted on August 18, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Last week Husband and I celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary. I went to the new grocery store and picked up crab legs, opened a bottle of champagne and we sat at our kitchen table and looked out the window at the tall grass and the setting sun and remembered what it was like

To be 15 and at the movies together for the first time

To be 16 driving the backroads in his Thunderbird

To be 17 and making plans to leave this place

To be 18 and away from home together

To be 21 and uncertain about where to go from there

To be 23 and married under the oak tree at the ranch with nothing ahead of us but time and gravel roads and plans we started making when we were 15.

Today my dearly beloved is outside hammering and screwing a big deck to the side of our house so that we can spend the rest of our summers opening the sliding glass doors with a glass of wine, a plate of steaks, watermelon for cutting or corn for husking, a magazine, a guitar or a good book to accompany us while we look out over our little homestead under the big blue sky or setting sun.

My future with this man has not always been clear, but it has always held him close: in the hot summer sun wiping the sweat from his forehead as he measures and saws and plans, bundled up against the winter winds on his way to work, rolling out his mother’s noodle recipe on the kitchen counter, throwing a stick for our big brown dog, riding a good horse behind some good cows, rocking our children and next to me, no matter what, just near me.

And so I hold on. I’ve held on since we I was eleven years old sitting next to him in band class.

Coming Home: Loving the same man for more than half my life
by Jessie Veeder
8/18/13
Fargo Forum
www.inforum.com

I hold on because it just keeps getting better.

What you get when I’m stuck in the house…

Posted on August 17, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Happy Friday to you. I hope you get off work early and have plans to sip cold drink on a summery deck somewhere.

I’m spending mine under a blanket on my cozy couch dosed up on pain pills after partaking in a little surgery (nothing major…and no, not a nose job) yesterday.

Yes, full disclosure, I’m on drugs.

Word is I’ll be feeling better tomorrow. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway as I’ve been enduring daytime television programming and small attempts at sounding coherent on work calls I decided to return since I am home and not supposed to go anywhere.

And now for your lesson of the day: you shouldn’t return work calls when you’re on hyrdocodone.

You probably shouldn’t respond to emails either. Or write a blog.

But I could be worse. I could be Little Sister. She got her wisdom teeth removed on Wednesday.

She looks like a chipmunk and can’t eat Doritos.

So there’s that.

At least I can eat Doritos. If we had Doritos.

I could really go for some Doritos…

Yup, we’re a pathetic lot out here at the ranch. But while we’ve been resting Husband and Little Sister’s man have been working on putting up the deck in time for my birthday party because, besides world peace, my one birthday wish is that I will be able to celebrate 30 by toasting to old age with tequila on the beautiful deck attached to our house.

And my husband, bless his handyman soul, is doing what he can.

I’ll keep you posted.

But for now, in honor of Friday, mandatory couch time and my drug induced loss for words, I would like to give you a little update on what’s been going on around the old homestead these days.

To sum it up, it’s August and it’s been raining, which is not common for this month. Our ranch missed the recent devastating hail storm that rolled in across the country side, wiping out large wheat fields and leaving farmers to shake their heads at the loss. We are shaking ours at the thought.