Days spent like this…

Posted on January 27, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I have been hanging with Little Man a lot lately. We’ve been chillin’, drinking bottles of milk, throwing snack foods on the ground, giving the kitties kisses, watching Mickey Mouse, practicing our walking skills and pooping our pants…wait…that one is just him.

He is a blessing, a joy, a wonder of new accomplishments and experiences. He tests the limits of what he is made of about 64 times a day because that’s what being a child is all about. Reaching, learning, climbing on the table when no one’s looking just to see if you can.

I wish I could be more like him. He’s taught me so much already in his short little year-and-some-months life and the time I get to spend with him one-on-one opens my eyes to things I didn’t know about life before I met him.

Like a tiny kid in tiny Carharts might be on the top of the list titled “Cutest things in the world”

This is also on that list:

And, well, he stands alone pretty well on that list too.

I have also learned that cute can get into your cupboards, pull the lab’s tail, wake up at 3:30 am, throw his vegetables on the floor, then his fruit, then his sippy cup, laugh hysterically about it…and then get you to laugh hysterically about it too…while you happily clean up the mess.

Because cute is cute, even when he’s the reason you went to work with mashed peas stuck to your butt.

In addition, in my previous life I did not pay adequate attention to The Disney Channel. And to that I would like to formally apologize to Walt Disney himself. And then I would like to thank him. Because Walt, The Disney Channel is a little gift from heaven. Because that’s where Mickey Mouse lives. And Little Man loves Mickey Mouse just enough for me to be able to have a moment to tame my hair and brush my teeth.

Macaroni and cheese is also a gift, especially when the vegetables, fruit and sippy cups fail.

So is the song “You are my Sunshine.” Works every time.

And you know what else I’ve learned during the time I’ve been spending with this little bundle of smiles and snorts and boogers?

Well, I’ll tell ya, days spent like this:

And this:

They are my favorite days.

Poop, peas, Mickey and tail pulling included.

Who woulda thought?

When your nostrils freeze together…

Posted on January 19, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

If you live up here where January can be a real bitch sometimes, you’ve probably noticed weirdly familiar things happening to you and the bodies of those around you.

I say weirdly familiar because it’s been awhile, but you are suddenly very aware that you’ve felt like this before, sometime, in a frozen land far, far away…

Like the sensation of your nostrils freezing together when you step outside to start your car and take your first breath …and then that other sensation of…what is it? Oh yeah, fuming rage. Fuming rage that sends steam boiling out of your ears and thaws out your icy nostrils when you discover that your car won’t start.

And when you stomp back into warm house, visible steam escapes out the open door as you rubbing your hands together while blowing your breath into them to help get the blood flowing again. And as you holler to your husband the news about the damn piece of crap car and you could use his help here, he informs you that Cliff the weatherman just reported that it is 14 degrees below zero out there.

You scoff at the thought. And as you start to spew the following phrases like, “So what?!” That’s not that cold.” “My car has started in those types of temperatures before.” “The world is out to get me this morning.” and “Now would be a good time for a tropical vacation,” your sweet dear, husband, whom you’ve cut off in mid-sentence declaring war on the shitty Mazda you’ve been meaning to trade-in for a year now through partially frozen lips and snot dripping down your now thawed out nose, he politely interrupts you to ask you to guess what Cliff says it feels like out there with wind chill.

“35 below zero,” he says as he fills his giant coffee mug, not waiting for your guess.

“Damn you windchill,” you reply as you strip off your coat and contemplate whether the world would come to an end if you spent the rest of the day living it from underneath the covers.

What -38 with windchill looks like.

Are you with me here North Dakotans and Minnesotans who are currently under the Red Flag warning of an, and I quote, “Extreme Cold Warning”?

Insert sound of teeth chattering....

Yeah, they’re not kidding either. Yesterday husband came home and informed me that as he was walking outside at work the bottoms of his boots literally froze.

Yup. Like crackle, snap, pop went the soles of his supposed to be extreme temperature gear.

Wow.

I don’t know about you, but all I can say is, we knew this was coming didn’t we? I mean, if we thought we were going to get through one full month of January without a couple days of “freeze your toes, nose, nipples, and ass off” cold, then we were all living in a fantasy world now weren’t we? A fantasy world where North Dakota in the winter could possibly be warmer than some parts of Texas in the same season.

It’s possible friends, but not for long.

So here we are, freezing our toes, nose, nipples and asses off. And for those of you who have ventured out from under the covers in the last few days to get to work, bring the kids to school, pick up milk, grab some soup, or fill up gas, to you I say, you’re looking sexy in your furry hat, wool scarf pulled up over your nose, leather mittens, giant boots, and your hoodie under your fleece jacket, under your down coat that hits just below the knees. Really, that’s a ravishing look on you.

I'm too sexy for these goggles, too sexy for these goggles...

For those of you who are sipping Mai Tais down in a place that has a palm tree or two, or sand, or cactuses or temperatures above forty degrees, I would like say two things:

1. I must have missed your call/text/email/written note inviting me to your house for the month of January because I haven’t yet received a call/text/email/written note inviting me to your house for the month of January. Which seems strange, because I am almost certain you said you were going to send it.

and

2. Forget it, I am sure you sent it. I mean, we’re best friends right? Get out the beach towels and the Speedos then because once I get my car started I’m on my way!

Until then me and the other durable and somewhat weather resistant northerners will be performing the following rituals to get us through this cold snap. Rituals like:

Running from the nearest heated building to our cars, heads down while holding our breath, shoving our hands in our pockets and jumping around like school-girls who have to pee as we fumble for our keys.
Greeting one another on the street, in the grocery store and at work with the following phrases: “Cold enough for ya?” “Stayin’ warm?” “Chilly out there isn’t it?” and my favorite “mmmwwwhhhhaaaa, shit, it’s cooolllddd out thheerrre!!!”
Pausing in the entryways of buildings for a few moments while our eyeballs thaw out
Sniffing. Constantly.
Asking our neighbors/friends/colleagues/children/mothers/grandfathers/sisters/people we’ve never met before if they have their hats/boots/scarves/giant blankets/fully charged cell phones/winter survival kits before they head out the door and into their cars
Dressing like this
Dressing our dogs like this
Ok, this one might only apply to me...
Wondering if we’ll ever regain feeling in our toes/nose/nipples/ass. Ever.
Squinting before me make the forbidden decision to remove the duct tape husband has put over the thermostat controls along with a strict “do not touch” message in magic marker. I mean, you’re only going to nudge it up a degree or two more…(Ok, this one may also only apply to me…)
Taking photos of the temperature gauge on our vehicles or outside our homes and sending them to friends who we are sure will share in our astonishment.
Booking tropical vacations

Yup. It’s cold.

Damn cold.

So I’ll be seeing ya down south!

“Where the deer and the mis-guided pug with an identity crises play…”

Posted on January 17, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

If I had to estimate the miles I have trudged around the hills of this ranch since moving back a year and a half ago I will go out on a limb and shout out loud with my hands in the air (because I talk with my hands) “Hundreds!”

I know this is probably not accurate. I know it’s likely exaggerated a bit, but it sounds good. It sounds like a number I am content with considering that whenever I have a moment to spare to clear my head, find my breath, get my blood pumping or look for inspiration, I find myself bundling up, grabbing my camera and climbing to the top of the nearest butte, crouching down in the creek beds, or trudging in the fields above our house searching for the horses.

It’s a ritual that can’t be beat. One that never fails to put me right with the world actually.

Have you ever finished a giant meal full of more carbohydrates than a woman should consume in a week while watching the latest episode of “The Biggest Loser?”

No?

Me neither.

But if I were to engage in such unhealthy behavior that left me with a feeling that resembles a mix of “no self-control” and a very present tinge of “self loathing”, a walk in those hills with the wind blowing through my hair and flushing my cheeks would clean the ick right out of me. Not to mention put a very necessary dent in the calories consumed and a much-needed burn in my calf muscles.

And all of the huffing and puffing in the prairie wind also happens to be a nice quick fix for writer’s block as well as those unavoidable gloomy moods where you are certain the universe planted that slipper in the middle of the floor just to trip you.

The universe or your husband.

And if I were ever to have a fight with said husband over said slipper that starts with a joke only one of us thinks is funny and ends with none of us laughing, I am comforted knowing that the cure lies in the entryway where at least one-pair of boots is waiting for me to save them from the depressing depths of the closet and get them out into a world full of dirt and sunshine and cool breezes and snow and maybe an adventure…

And you know who else is waiting out there for me to overdose on carbs, get stuck on the last line of a new song, pick a fight with the hubby, or, you know, avoid the laundry?

Yup, you guessed it.

My P.ICs, my M.V.Ps…

My D.O.G.s

Yup. They never miss a chance to escort me on old cow trails, rocky hilltops and slushy creek beds. Because they too think slushy creek beds are the best. And it doesn’t much matter if they are a few miles over the hill visiting their girlfriends at mom and pop’s, or rolling in poop below the barn, or catching a really good nap in a sunny spot by the garage, as soon as they hear the door knob turn they are at the door wagging their butts at the idea that we are going somewhere.

In rain, or snow, or, well, you know, a blinding blizzard, my loyal companions are ready for me to go anywhere…at anytime.

Oh, to have that much trust mixed in with an even greater amount of passion for things like sniffing and running and munching on dead things. What a life!

And I love it. I do. They are my constant, fluffy, four-legged, slobbery, poop sniffing, leg lifting, floppy eared, droopy faced, smooshy faced, out-of-place companions.

But let us take a moment to note that nowhere in my description of my furry friends is there an adjective that is synonymous with the following terms: regal, photogenic, award-winning, gorgeous, nobel, handsome, agile, graceful, rustic, poetic, inspiring or the quality some living things posses that make those witnessing them actually slow the object’s motion down in their imaginations in order to fully absorb the grandeur of their presence…you know, like when the hot chick enters the library and lets her hair down in your favorite tween movie.

No, my pups have never been anyone’s love interest, nor will they be appearing in any major motion pictures anytime soon.

Unless there is a sequel to “Homeward Bound.” If they make that I’ll be putting together some audition tapes of my cats following the dogs following the horses following the cows in the home pasture.

Now that’s a sight for the big screen.

A comical sight, but this is my life.

And a comedy is the only category these hounds fit into really. Which, in turn, makes it challenging to really focus on the contemplative, inspiring, whimsical, natural, meditative, stunning and magical photographs I am shooting to capture on these jaunts out on the countryside when Tweedle Dee and his BFF Tweedle Dumb are high tailing it for the nearest stock dam…

Or, you know, doing things like this…

Needless to say I spend a majority of my time on these walks shouting at the dogs to get the hell out of the frame and a few extra editing moments at the computer weeding out the unwanted dog tail, snout, foot and always present butt that might have snuck its way into one of my beloved sunset/landscape/horse/babbling creek/rainbow/wildflower photos.

Case in point:

Without dogs:

With dogs:

Without dog:

With dog:

Without dog:

With dog:

Without dog:

With dog:

Without dog:

With dog:

Somehow a photograph of a North Dakota sunset says something a bit different with a profile of a flat nosed pug and a droopy faced lab silhouetted in the forefront.

But what, exactly, does it say?

“Home, home on the range, where the deer, the mis-guided pug with an identity crises and a prematurely aging labrador play …”

And as much as I’ve tried to make the lab look nobel and stoic sitting strong against the backdrop of the rolling prairie, the orders aren’t rushing in for a 20X30 framed and matted photograph of a 105 pound chocolate hunting dog with drool flinging off of his droopy lips due to the relentless wind of the day…no matter how big his heart…

For some reason nobody is in desperate need of that work of art to hang over their fireplaces to complete the warm and sexy look of their home.

It’s the same reason that this shot here:

is just a bit more appealing than, say, this shot:

No, we’re just not ready to appreciate and celebrate the spirit that these types of life-loving creatures can bring to a beautiful landscape.

Take a look at this shot for instance. Here we have a handsome group of long horn steers, a symbol of the rugged west, a story waiting to be told of cowboys and wide open range and a lifestyle that is adventurous and brave.

Now throw a pug in the mix and, well, that beautiful poem is instantly replaced with that childhood song “one of these things is not like the other/one of these things just doesn’t belong…”

Now that’s what I call contemplative.

Ah, yes. There are a hundred pictures like this. Hundreds of photos of the hundreds of miles these to yahoos have spent running the trails in front of me, sniffing in the brush, licking my face when I lean in close to the ground to get a close shot of a flower, or coming to my rescue when I lay down in the grass to look up.

And I am aware that when I crop out the wandering tail, the meandering paw and the occasional out of control floppy ear, this landscape looks the way it was meant…authentic, natural and pure…

But sometimes I like to keep in a squishy nose or a blur in the grass to remind me that , well, sometimes when you’re looking for inspiration, relaxation, and escape from the stresses of the world, the best medicine is to remember your sense of humor…

And that life is nothing without good company. And I would walk a million miles in those hills with these two clowns.

Forever…

and ever…

Amen.

Obsession…

Posted on January 12, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I have been having some issues this past month and I decided it’s high time I let you all in on one of my little quirks. Because I think it is one of my duties to make you all feel better about yourselves and life in general and what better way to give someone the gift of self-assurance than to flat out confess that I might be a little crazy.

I can't help it, like GaGa, I was born this way...

See, you feel a bit more normal already, don’t you?

Anyway, I may have mentioned in passing that I have a few addictions. One of them is coffee,

Like I said, it started at a young age...

Another is bagels, and, well, get me in a room with puppies and I am in danger of an overcommitment similar to that of the Megan character in Bridesmaids.

Yeah. 9 puppies in a van. That would be me.

Look at me, I'm possessed....

Obsession. We all have it in us. Sometimes it’s a great thing. Sometimes obsession pushes us to test our limits of capabilities and finds us climbing uncharted mountains, speaking foreign languages, running marathons or, you know, at the Grammys or something.

But sometimes it ain’t so pretty. Like when you snap out of a chocolate chip cookie induced coma to find that you have been watching a marathon of “Dance Moms” on a Sunday afternoon, for like four hours straight. The realization that you may never get those brain cells back is a tough pill to swallow. And the realization that there are actually women in this world who are that awful…and they get their own t.v. show…can also be something that puts you at risk of a late night call to your therapist.

Yeah, I’ve had my fare share of obsessions. From my addiction to blending things, the semester in college where I couldn’t fall asleep without watching re-runs of the Cosby show on TV Land and the six months I spent determined to find myself a pair of the original Zubas…in my size…in pink and black…just…like…I…used…to…wear.

Needless to say I had to wean myself off of Ebay the same way I had to quit Theo.

It was painful, but necessary.

Yes, I have been known to go overboard. You witnessed it a few months back when you caught me sitting at my kitchen table in my sweatpants, crazy eyed and determined to craft something. It goes wwwaaayyy back people. Back to my days of 4-H and wildflower hunting and learning to ice skate on the frozen stock dam, practicing for hours so that one day it might be possible for me to compete in the Olympics.

I am delusional. But in those moments, the moments I am spinning on ice and getting ready to use my toe pick to launch into the triple axel I am so utterly confident I can land, I believe myself. And then I crack my tail bone on the ice and decide that perhaps I should get back to latch hooking.

Yeah, I’ve been known to possess the not so productive, not so calorie burning or brain-cell friendly obsessions in my lifetime. And I will admit that not many of them have turned out the way I had intended.

But some have. Like my this one right here:

Ummm, hmmmm, that turned out alright sisters.

Yup. I am the woman who finds something she likes for breakfast and then eats it for breakfast like….every….single….morning. When I have a favorite menu item at a favorite restaurant I order it…every…single…time. Like a song? I press repeat. And then I press it again. Then I buy the album and NEVER take it out of the CD player until I find another album to torture my friends and family with for months at a time. Seriously, I have literally worn out CDs….

And so I guess that explains my five year marriage to a man I met when I was eleven, in case you were wondering.

Yup.

Which brings me to today. I’m flaring up.

And I am blaming the advancements in technology. See, it used to be out here in the wilderness you were protected. You didn’t have access to a shopping mall, so maybe you wore the same boots every day and didn’t know any different. You were happy. You fell in love with the music that you heard coming through the radio on drives in the tractor or in the feed pickup.

All seven of them.

And you were happy humming to George Strait. George Strait is the man. And Zubas were only a fond memory. A memory that had absolutely no potential of becoming a reality again because there was NO SUCH THING AS EBAY!!!

But now I’m screwed. I have high speed (well, high speed for middle of nowhere) internet and I just found out that Pinterest was invented AND I NEED FURNITURE AND LIGHT FIXTURES AND I NEED TO CRAFT THOSE LIGHT FIXTURES OUT OF RECYCLED WINE BOTTLES AND THE FURNITURE OUT OF BARNWOOD AND PILLLOWS I HAVE TO LEARN TO SEW FROM SCRATCH! IDEAS! I’VE FOUND ALL THE IDEAS!!!

And then, my little sister came home and introduced me to Spotify, an online music sharing site that gives you access to any artist and all of their albums. So I downloaded it and have been crying in my office at work for like three days in a row as I listen to Lori McKenna‘s new album on repeat for eight hours.

I mean, who writes lyrics like this?

I was just a little girl
When your hand brushed by my hand
And I will be an old woman
Happy to have spent my whole life with one man”

Who is this woman and why is she singing about my life?
Can we be friends? Lori? Lori? Can you text me? I’m dying. Sniff. Sniff. Sob.

I think I’ll stalk her on YouTube

Lori McKenna: How Romantic is That

But here’s the worst thing of all. Something I’ve known is out there for years. Something that has fed an already brewing obsession. Something that allows for that obsession to be delivered to my door with a click of the button. Something that is filling my already to capacity closets to the brim, inhibiting me from making wardrobe decisions, has me standing in front of the mirror in jeans on one leg, and then the other… It’s keeping me up late at night.

It’s costing me hundreds of dollars.

And the worst thing of all is that I can’t quit. They don’t make a patch, they don’t have a help line, I can’t call my momma cause she has the same problem…my sister is hooked too. It might be hereditary. It might be the devil…if the devil was fashionable and sexy….

Yes…you guessed it. It’s online boot shopping…and I need one of the following in every color.

I need fancy boots for singing, practical boots for riding, comfy boots for walking (because these boots are made for walking), boots that look like slippers, slippers that look like boots…

I need boots that go over your jeans, and ones that go under, and a pair that do both just in case. I need high heeled boots and mid heeled boots and well, normal heeled boots. And I need high heels that look like boots.

I need snow boots for trudging, and snow boots for shopping, and muck boots for slopping around in the shit in the corrals.

I need hiking boots to climb the hills and boots that go in my snow shoes. I need hunting boots. I need cowboy boots, and sexy cowboy boots, and boots that kinda look like cowboy boots, but aren’t.

I need hippy boots and professional boots that go with the suit I might wear some day. I need square toe, round toe, pointy toe and the ones that are kinda square and kinda pointy…

There out there…they are. I’ve seen them all!!!! Mwahahahahaha….. (*whisper* hhheeelpp….meee…)

I’ll just be a little longer… Can you hand me another chocolate chip cookie?

Shit.

How you spend your weekend…

Posted on January 9, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Weekends around the ranch, no matter how well intentioned and thought out, are usually pretty unpredictable. Where some families have a nice and lovely routine that includes pancakes in the morning, taking kids to practices, catching a movie and maybe going out to eat with the family on Sunday after church, around here we try to keep our plan simple so as to not disappoint: wake up when the sun gets up and see if we can’t get something done between the hours of sunrise and sunset.

Sometimes we rock it. Sometimes we accomplish our goals of moving cows, mowing the lawn, fixing fence, taking down the little Christmas tree, taking a walk, nailing something to something else and feeding all the damn cats in time to cook supper together and kick back in our respective spots on our comfy furniture with our feet up before hitting the sack.

Other times our biggest accomplishment of the weekend is getting out of our sweatpants.

And usually those Saturdays come after the Friday that the band plays in town.

Uff. Da.

Because when the band plays in town we don’t roll back to the ranch until 2 am.

And, well, you know what I say about 2am? Well, usually nothing because usually I’m sleeping. But if I happen to see it, I scold it. Because nothing good happens after midnight…and nobody is beautiful at 2 am…especially not yours truly.

I’ve known this to be true even during my stint as a younger woman who may or may not have been the only one caught sleeping at the completely innocent and organized after prom party.

2 am and I never got along.

But making that drive to town to listen to the band play “Peaceful Easy Feeling” and “Can’t You See” and John Prine songs that make me think about dancing the two step is worth the inevitable next day spent shuffling around the house in sweatpants. Especially because one of my favorite things in the world is singing with these men, my pops, our neighbor, and two or sometimes three of the greatest musicians around.

Oh, and then there’s the talent that just might saunter through the back door sometimes, like the squeeze box player from New Orleans, the fiddle player from the badlands or the base player from the next town.

The music is always good.

And the next day after I have pulled off my boots and washed the smoke out of my hair, no matter the hour we arrived home to our bed, I am always a little rejuvenated, despite that my blood-shot eyes might indicate otherwise.

See, when I was younger and looking over the edge of the nest, waiting to take that inevitable leap, I have to tell you, I think I was realistic about how much I really knew about life. And that’s why I was scared to death. But the few things I did know, like what it felt like to be loved, which direction my car needed to be facing to get me home, how to make a killer bowl of ramen noodles and the fact that leaving this place was inevitable were a good basis for what I now know will be a lifetime spent learning how I might exist here with purpose.

Which brings me to my point. I have one, I think. See, when I left home ten years ago I don’t remember being too delusional about life, although I am sure it snuck its way in there at times as I imagined myself singing on big stages, selling at least enough CDs to pay the bills or writing a best-selling novel. No, I didn’t see myself as a CEO of a company or a big PR Executive even though that might have been the direction my professors were leading me. I didn’t dream of climbing to the top of big mountains, but I would have taken you up on your offer. And I didn’t picture myself with 4.5 children, a white picket fence and a casserole in the oven, although I was open to it if it happened to turn out that way

Casseroles weren’t something I dreamed of then.

But when the clock would hit that magical 11:11 at night, something that I always found so thrilling to catch, do you know what I wished for every time?

A happy life.

Yes. Even though I had no idea what that meant, what my version of a happy life was, I wished for it.

And so here we are a good nine days into the new year and I’m not going to lie, it’s been a tough nine days around here. Because it turns out even my safe-haven, even the rolling hills of the ranch and dreams coming true can’t protect us from pain and uncertainties that can come speeding down the pink road. But it has put this question on my mind as I roll out of bed, trying to move through the fleeting thoughts that come with knowing there are things I may never have and people in my life who may never have the happy life I speak of.

And as I talk to friends and family who might be hurting or reaching for something that they are continually denied or failing to see themselves, to really see themselves, I tell them: try every day to live honestly…and be true.

And so I tell myself.

But what does that mean? Really? What am I saying?

Ok, well, let me bring it back around to those men who play guitar and sing while closing their eyes tight on Saturday nights at the bar in their hometown. Or the woman who gets up in the morning before her children, before her husband, just as the sun is peeking over the horizon to lace up her running shoes and spend an hour propelling her body over the earth, sucking the morning air into her middle-aged lungs. Or the father who sits patiently with his teenage son to teach him the art of wood-turning, the artist who sees the sunrise as a painting, sees a face in the clouds or the single man who finds himself committed to conquering fears and the adrenaline rush that comes with skiing down the face of a snow packed mountain.

What do they have in common? It’s not the result of the painting, the physique that comes with the run, the money made on the piece of art or the applause after the song is over.

No.

It’s the beauty of the wood discovered underneath the bark and the conversation with his son that he might not have had otherwise. It’s giving herself the chance at a morning quiet enough to hear her own heart beat out in the open space she loves, it’s taking notice that the world is the masterpiece and the understanding that the end result can’t possibly give her as much joy as the process of creating it.

It’s singing out loud next to your father and his best friends for the sake of singing. For the sake of committing to doing something that you love with people you care about.

Because in order to live honestly you must know yourself and the tools you need to cope in a world that can be downright unpredictable and overwhelming and sometimes unbelievably sad.

It’s knowing there are things inside you that need to be nourished, things that need to be shared with others, created, or kept safely next to you on your bedside table. And it’s trying your damnedest to find out what those things are and doing them, even if it means staying up until 2 am.

And so it’s worth it sometimes (if you have at least one pair of clean underwear left) to let the laundry wait until you get back from your walk, finish that painting, go to your yoga class, visit a friend…

Because the secret to living honestly, staying true and living a happy life, just might be how you spend your weekend….

A little about Little Man

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Check out my date for the day:

Yup, he’s a handsome catch.

Don’t judge me ok. But when I get a chance to hang with my baby nephew, the first thing I do (after getting a smile and a hug) is dress him as a mini version of an adult character, like a cowboy or a hunter or an extreme athlete who wears Under Armor gear and then head outside.

Yeah, there may be some past evidence of this tendency….

Anyway, Little Man loves it outside. And with the unseasonably warm temperatures this week the little guy didn’t even need a puffy coat to enjoy the sunshine, barn animals and a big boy ride on the 4-wheeler.

Which reminds me, I need to get him a pair of goggles to go with that flapper hat. I think it would really complete the outfit don’t you?

Other than that, we’ve been busy you know. So busy that the kid is currently snoring, exhausted from a morning of growing teeth, making his aunt gag with the giant surprise he left in his pants: twice, and you know, working on the walking thing.

Yup, today Little Man discovered how to stand up without any aid from a piece of furniture and propel himself forward on his feet. You know, a little thing we refer to as walking. And if I ever had doubt about why parents get so insane over things like children pooping on the potty and saying “DaDa” or “Shoe” (which not surprisingly, was my first word) I will never question it again.

Because when this little phenomenon occurred (one I have been nagging him about for months) this morning in my momma’s kitchen, I nearly spontaneously combusted with pride. When the reoccurring single step he usually takes from the standing position turned into two and then three, the look on that Little Man’s face was priceless. I screamed. I clapped. I did a back flip.

I called President Obama.

Hearing the commotion from shower stall, my momma came rushing in from the bathroom in her towel, and, well, she did the same thing, joining me in crazy company.

And then she called Oprah and asked her if she would like the exclusive interview with this wondrous kid.

It was magic.

And it hasn’t happened again for a good three hours, despite all of my coaxing.

Ah, well.

And ah, to be a toddler.

Watching Little Man discover the world, grab the cat by the tail, and snuggle into his gramma’s lap opens up a whole new world for us here on the ranch. One that has been plumb full of adult wisdom and responsibilities for years. But when Little Man comes down the road backward in his car seat and reaches his arms up to us, his way of asking to be pulled out, to be shown something, to be held and bounced and kissed and hugged, I cant help but wish I had still had some of those memories with me.

I wish I could recall what it was like to taste the world for the first time, or the adventure of never knowing if it’s milk or juice in that sippy cup. I wish I could remember that thrill of my first step and the faces that were there cheering me on. I wish I could reach back in the depths of my mind to hear the lullabies sung and the stories told, to hear my mother’s young voice, my grandmother’s whistle. I wish I could feel the thrill of being tossed in the air with full confidence that my grandfather would be there to catch me.

I wish he could remember how happy he is making everyone around here. How he melts his grandmother’s worries away as soon as she see’s his face. How he makes everything else in his grandfather’s world disappear when he see’s his toothy smile.

I wish he could remember how his aunt loses all inhibitions in attempts to make him laugh and how everything’s right in his uncle’s world when he comes home from work and finds Little Man’s arms stretched out for a hug.

I know these particular events won’t stick in his little memory, but I know he will understand how important he is to our world.

Oh, and I will tell him.

Certain things.

Like how I did my first and only backflip when she saw him walk and how his gram called Oprah about the whole thing…

I probably won’t tell him about all the times he’s peed on me. Or how I repeatedly put his diapers on backwards.

Or how much he used to poop his pants.

Some memories are meant to be repressed.

Have a great weekend everyone. If you need me, I’ll be napping too.

Love,

Aunty Jessie

Oh January

Posted on January 4, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Oh, January you’ve changed haven’t you?
Casting long shadows
against gold, green and blue

tempting us with light jackets
and unlined walking shoes

Oh, January…what did you do?

To your silky white snow drifts
your wind frozen and wild?
You used to be reckless,
now what are you? Mild?

You’re a hot, sultry vixen
and you’re throwing us off
with your new sexy t-shirt
and your jeans? Are they cropped?

Yes, your new look it is stunning,
your kisses so warm
still I find myself watching
for the inevitable storm…

For the snowflakes to drop
and my fingers to freeze
as I lay in the gold grass
humming with the soft breeze.

Oh, I wait to despise you
like I usually do
No, I’m not sure about this
but I like it, it’s new.

But your hair does looks different
your cheeks a bit flushed
and you greet me with sunshine!
January I’m touched!

So though the I hate to admit it
or make a big fuss
January, I tell you…

I’ve never liked you this much.

This year’s story…

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

The year is winding down here and it is doing so quite nicely. This morning there is a little fog that has settled in over the barnyard, coating the grass and trees with a thin layer of frost. I am waiting for the sky to lighten a bit before taking a trip into town, just as all of us up here this December are waiting, holding our breath for the snow to fall as it inevitably will. And in the hustle and bustle of our lives, the taking down of Christmas decorations, the New Year’s plans, the gift returns and holiday cleanup, my hope for you is that you are giving yourself a moment to close your eyes and reflect on a year that was no doubt filled with achievements, heartbreak, love found or lost, adventure…all the experiences that got us safely to the cusp of a new year, a little older, a little wiser, and hopefully, a little better in spite of all of those lessons.

Lessons like when delving into a full-blown, first time in the kitchen salsa caning project at 8 pm, make sure you have the proper ingredients (like jars) and the willpower and drive to follow through into the early morning hours. Or the other lesson learned early on in the year about how to ensure you don’t ever get a visit from the Schwan’s man again in your life followed by the an over the phone tutorial on how to pull the FedEx man in a FedEx van out of your snowed in driveway in the middle of winter, in the middle of nowhere. Both lessons resulting in getting our ice-cream and our packages in town.

Yes, there was the lesson learned about what happens when 150 cows throw a party on your lawn after a big summer rain storm, the one about how to sprain your ankle jumping off a horse, the realization that I just might be too soft to be an effective 4-H judge followed by the other realization that apparently husband collects coolers, microwaves, bed frames, dressers, ice skates, thousands of unidentifiable tractor and truck parts, old lunch boxes, swallow nests, spiders, deer antlers, gears, wire, Christmas wreaths, scrap wood, a jeep and a partridge in a pear tree and keeps them piled up in our garage….and that isn’t likely to change.

Ever.

And yes, I will always blame this on him.

And then there was the blinding lesson the pug learned about messing with porcupines when you only weigh thirty-five pounds and a good portion of your smooshy face is actually covered in two buggy eyeballs, which resulted in the following lesson on how to get by with only one buggy eyeball. And after the three trips to the vet, the giant cone he was forced to wear and a few run-ins with the wall as he turned his head to look over his shoulder, the pug has pretty much been transformed this year into something that could be referred to now as “Bad Ass.”

Bad ass like husband running out the door in the middle of the night to save us all from the raccoon dangling off of the side of the deck with, umm, nothing but a gun in his hand and a mission in his groggy head. Turns out he got to learn the lesson about wearing clothes to bed in case of midnight varmint emergencies, well, twice.

Yes, some lessons catch us off guard and find us standing butt naked on the rail of the deck in the middle of the night with a shotgun in your hands and two full moons shining in the darkness…and then others roll into your lives quietly, like the herd of elk Pops and I snuck up on this spring, reminding us that life is magical and fragile and quite frankly a masterpiece.

A masterpiece that grows the raspberries in the east pasture and finds us riding our horses in the summer sun at just the right time to stumble upon them and indulge. It’s the kind of life that gives us voices and ambition to sing out loud next to people you respect and admire and the ability to understand that it doesn’t matter where you are, in a barnyard, around a campfire, in a smoky bar somewhere, it’s the chance to blend voices, it’s the music in you that, when it finds its moment to be heard, is the true gift.

Like the gift I was given as I watched my husband walk across the pasture in the crisp spring evening at the end of the first pleasant day of one of the harshest winters of our lives. And as I watched him scratch the ears of his favorite horse from my perch in the passenger seat of the pickup I caught my breath in the realization that this is the life we were supposed to be living and that in this world full of snow storms and breakdowns and things that might never be fixed, I married the right man. And we are in the right place.

And so here I sit in my husband’s favorite chair in my grandmother’s house on my family’s land on the edge of the badlands in North Dakota as the wind blows through the icy trees under an overcast sky. Here I sit with my coffee cup, taking a moment to reflect on a year that was observed just as much as it was lived. And if the words I scrounged up to describe the sound of a coyote howling across the landscape haven’t moved a soul, if the photos I snapped of the breathtaking sunsets were only seen with my eyes and the music I wrote of my home in the hills was only heard in my heart, today I can say with confidence something that may not have rung true a few years ago…it would be enough for me.

See, it hasn’t come easily, but as I walked out in the summer rain and bent down to snap a photo of a wildflower drenched in the season, as I laughed out loud at the antics of my pets, helped my husband in the kitchen, strummed my guitar, playing along with a song my father was singing or climbed on the back of a horse to show my friend around the ranch, I found myself becoming an a spectator, a witness to the life I was living. With my camera to my eye I noticed how the sky formed gorgeous silhouettes, how my father’s hands folded on the saddle horn while he counted the cattle, how my sister rides horse like she lives life…on a mission.

With the idea of passing on the story, I listened a little closer at how words rolled of tongues, paid attention to the heat of the sun, the bite of the wind, the way the snow crunched under our feet…

Yesterday a new friend exclaimed that one of the three things we have control of in our lives is our time. And I know sometimes it doesn’t feel this way, sometimes it feels time has a grip on us, it passes us by, it moves too quickly when we want it to stay and drags on the minutes while we wait to move on. But if we could give ourselves one gift this new year I think it would be this: to exist and move through our lives conscious of how we are spending our minutes, aware that they are with or without purpose. And then we should give ourselves a little bit more of it so that we might observe the moon as it rises big and bright over the horizon, kiss our husbands a little longer, let ourselves lie down in the spring grass, feel the warm sun and watch the clouds move with the wind, hold our children a little tighter and linger there to smell their clean hair, to feel their soft skin under our fingers so we can remember it well, that we can get to know it all… so that we might have it in us when we need it most.

So of all of the lessons learned this year, all of the things I’ve come to know and appreciate, one of my greatest gifts has been having your ear to listen, your eyes to see what I see, your words that relate to the chaos of life here in this space we share, to tell you these things and know that someone cares. Because the stories are there, boring or humorous, observational, poetic…everyone has them. But without you I may have never told them…

And because of you I now know they are enough.

Happy New Year to you and all of those in your story!

A Very Veeder Christmas

Posted on December 27, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

A very merry first day back to work after Christmas to you all. I hope you all had a lovely time working on polishing off those sugar cookies and have packed a turkey sandwich, a leftover noodle salad, a piece of prime rib, some chocolate kisses, peanut brittle and maybe a holiday orange or two to get you through a full day away from the kitchen.

We celebrated in Veeder style out here at the ranch beginning with mimosa and husband’s famous caramel rolls in the morning and ending with our first attempt at homemade pie for dessert.

Yup, I (helped) make this

And so I would like to present to you some of the highlights of our big day in my 2nd Annual Very Veeder Christmas Re-cap. It must be done. Because, as always, it was a holiday to remember at the ranch, filled to the brim with traditions that have warmed our souls and lifted our spirits year after year…

Traditions like the holiday themed cheeseball:

I know it's hard to believe he's edible considering how absolutely life-like he is, but it's true. And he was delicious.

The “quick, take a picture of the cat under the tree with the presents isn’t that so cuuutteee oh my gaawwdddd” photo:

The beautiful tree:

The forced, awkward holiday photo shoot, under the direction of yours truly…which never works when she who is to be directed is my annoying, shutter happy little sister:

Let's do this people...

I hope that wasn’t as painful for you as it was for me.

Let’s cleanse our pallets now with an explosion of cute…

And one of our newest and most favorite traditions yet: watching Little Man take in the holiday while Pops follows him around helping him open presents, pry into the fourteen layers of plastic packaging then disappear in a full out investigative search in the garage for the appropriate sized batteries, assemble the toys and proceed with his instructional session with the one-year-old on how to scootch a toy truck along the floor while making “vrroommminnng” noises as the rest of the family watches in anticipation of Little Man following suit…

It must be a grandpa thing.

Awww. Christmas just isn’t Christmas without adorable little children playing at your feet and… well…the annual presentation of the pug in his Santa suit…

Load him up Cowboy

Don't look at me like that...this is your Christmas duty...

Ta Da!

Nothing spreads holiday cheer like the glare of hatred coming from the one-eyed pug who refuses to move on account of the outfit.

I’m not positive, but I think might be the only one in our family who finds this type of pet humiliation utterly hilarious….

bwahahahahaaa…(tap, tap, is this thing on?)

Yes, it was a holiday to remember at our house filled with love and laughter, snuggles and eating, just the right amount of humiliation and maybe one Christmas cookie dough fight. But in all of the familiarity of the season, there are some traditions that just couldn’t be fulfilled, and this year it was snow.

Ah well, I don’t hear anyone complaining really, considering last year at this time we were trudging our way through snow drifts up over our heads to get down the road to Mom’s and Pop’s for Christmas morning.

But the lack of snow isn’t the only thing that’s changed around here since we celebrated Christmas 2010…

What a difference a year makes!

Cheers to a wonderful new one ahead, filled with beautiful memories and at least one less than embarrassing photo to match.

Or, you know, you could just go with it…

Momma’s Mouth Watering Fudge-A Christmas Gift

Posted on December 24, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

The Merriest Christmas to all of you. I hope you’re reading this and looking forward to a weekend filled with friends and family and laughter and delicious food. To honor your friendship and support I am giving you a gift that has been enjoyed by many families around the countryside here Christmas after Christmas, courtesy of my Momma. You remember her? My Momma, the woman who has Santa Clause’s cell phone number on speed dial and continues to make Christmas the most magical time of the year. Every year.

There she is, buried under presents and squished between a couple other holly, jolly family members...

And one of the ways she does this is by whipping up this recipe and distributing it in fancy little green and red containers adorned with bows to every person who has touched her family’s life or made her laugh or brought her a bottle of wine at the perfect moment a bottle of wine was necessary throughout the year.

Men drool over this. Women hide it in places their families won’t find it. Kids sneak pieces of this heartfelt delicacy while their parent’s have their backs turned. It’s a little bit of heaven in your mouth.

It’s my momma’s fudge..and I’m going to give you the recipe. A recipe that is sure to put you on the top of the “Nice” list year after year.

Make this and even the family members who’ve disowned you will be knocking at your door, apologizing for their wrong doing with a bottle of champaign begging you to forgive them…and please, can I have a piece of that fudge.

It’s that easy.

Really.

I can even make it…all by myself!

Here’s what you need:

1 12 oz package semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 12 oz package milk chocolate chips
3 teaspoons vanilla
4 1/2 cups of sugar
1 pound of butter (No worries, I’ll post my Momma’s instructional aerobic video after Christmas)
1 can evaporated milk

Got it?

Ok, onward.

Butter an 8×12 baking dish
Bring sugar and evaporated milk to a boil, stirring constantly. Continue to stir and boil for 7 minutes.
Remove pot from heat and stir chocolate chips, vanilla and butter.
Stir until smooth and pour into the buttered baking dish
Refrigerate until set
Ask your hubby or the woman in your life with incredible strength to help you cut the fudge into squares
Serve up on a cute platter and stand back and smile as you experience that warm fuzzy feeling that comes with spreading holiday cheer.