To be seen and to disappear

Posted on September 29, 2026 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I am behind on posting columns for the past two weeks, and so today you get a two-in-one post to get us back on the rails!

Hope it’s as pretty where you are as it is here with the colors changing and the rain falling and the weather cooling down.

Right Place, Right Time
September 19, 2026

Last week I played music in a little park by the lake about two hours from the ranch. I was supposed to bring a sound system with me, which I didn’t realize until I got there and there was no sound system. But I did bring along my dad and my steele guitar playing friend who, luckily, lived close enough to go grab his system from his house. And when I realized I also forgot my guitar strap and my capo on my kitchen counter, my dad came in clutch with extras and the two guys combined saved the day.

Forgetting something as pertinent to a gig as a sound system is not something I’ve ever done. The fact that I was so confident in my decision not to bring one sort of had me on edge. The fact that it all worked out in the end thanks to those around me that had exactly what we needed, got me thinking about all the times in life we find ourselves in predicaments that can only be solved by the good fortune of having access to the right people at the exact right time.

Like when I got stuck behind a wreck in traffic on my way to town to pick Edie up from kindergarten and it was clear not only was I going to be late, but I was going to be very, very late. I was able to dial my friend and within five minutes she was there, saving the day and the kindergarten tears from falling.

Or like when my husband’s pickup recently broke down on the way home from town and his business partner just happened to be driving by pulling Chad’s flatbed trailer.

Or when my uncle was on his way to town to replace a broken toilet and stopped by the house to say hi first, only to discover that my husband had a brand new, extra toilet just hanging out in the garage.

Or when we were hosting a big, nationally touring country act in town and the stage management needed a drum stand in like five minutes and the local music teacher had just bought a new one–and she lived two blocks away from the stage–so she just walked it right over.

I’m writing this in the passenger seat of my car as my husband drives us back east to Rochester so I can get my first scan since treatment at Mayo Clinic. I’m confident we will find that the tumors are gone or shrinking nicely and we’ll head back home with good news, but I’m still annoyed we have to go at all. I mean, I’m missing Rosie’s fun run and Edie’s basketball game and Rosie’s field trip to the Dinosaur museum. And the girls aren’t happy about it either, a little residual panic from the last time I was there for so long. But this morning as we were packing up to leave, my husband looked at his phone and laughed. “You didn’t tell me it was a RUN!” my sister-in-law’s message read. She had enthusiastically said yes to Chad’s request to join Rosie on the track that morning (he could not handle her disappointed little face.) “She just LAPPED me!”

“Aunt of the year,” I wrote to a woman who found herself jogging with a hundred third graders at 8:30 in the morning in 40 degrees.

Day. Saved.

I am an independent person. Some could look at it as a strength in character, but often in my life it’s a quality that has been one of my biggest failings. As a kid, when someone would try to pick me up for a hug or to help me get more quickly from point A to point B, I would protest, “Put me down, I’m not a doll!” And then flee the scene.

My nature, when I’m sick, is to suffer in silence, away from people. If I were an animal, I would hole up and probably just die. And it’s a little bit that I hate to be a burden, and a little bit that I feel a need to regulate the room or the situation. If I’m uncomfortable or stressed, it could make you uncomfortable or stressed, and that stresses me out. And this is dumb, because this is not the way humans are supposed to exist in this world. And it’s not how I see it as someone on the other side of the help situation. One of my favorite things in the world is when someone needs a tissue or a wet wipe or a mint or a pocketknife and I am the woman who has all those things in her purse. My husband’s whole life thesis is being the guy ready for anything and willing to help in a crisis or inconvenience of any size and it’s the thing I love the most about him.

I walked into my office the other day and the chair that I ordered the week before had been put together for me when I was out. My coworker had her husband do it, because he loves that sort of thing, and as a person who hates to follow directions and also hates those tiny allen wrenches, it was as if he had hung the moon for me. And maybe this example isn’t as much about saving the day as it is about just doing something nice for someone. There are so many of you out there who operate like this, just going around making life easier for others intentionally or by being at the right place at the right time and willing to help.

Anyway, as we’re pulling off on the interstate I guess I just felt compelled to refect on the feeling of “phew,” and the sentiment of “thank you.”

See you back at the ranch!

To Disappear is Sometimes the Dream
September 26, 2026

“Do you think I could make it to the grain bins and back before it gets pitch black?” I asked my husband as I scooped the last of the rice and chicken off my plate an into my mouth. The rest of my family was lingering at the table, poking at a supper that was a little sub-par and reaching the limit of a long day. It was a little after 8 pm and supper was later than I wanted it to be, but the sun setting so quickly had me sort of shocked and frazzled.

In the summer and spring months a walk after supper was no problem. We could eat at 10 pm and I would still have time for an hour-long stroll to the fields. But it’s late September now and it was staring me down and ruining my plan to re-gain my sanity before bedtime.

“No,” my husband replied. “You’ll definitely be walking in the dark.”

I jumped up, put my dish in the sink and pulled on my shoes anyway. I’ve never been the kind of kid who’s afraid of the dark and so out I went, the three dogs jumping along in front of me, just as excited as I was to not skip this part of the day. We were a little past what the professionals like to call ‘Golden Hour,’ the time in the evening when the sinking sun casts a perfect golden hue on everything under its shine. We were well into the sunset portion of the evening, the time when the muskrats come out from wherever muskrats go, to swim in the stock dam. The time when the bats start to dive and swoop. The time when, if those dogs get too far ahead of you on the path, they will disappear entirely into the horizon.

To disappear entirely into the horizon. That’s nightfall in the country and it holds with it a certain type of feeling that’s hard to explain. It’s the feeling you get when you park your car after a long drive in the middle of the night and you shut the door behind you and look up at the sky and notice the quiet twinkling of the stars, or, maybe if you’re lucky, the northern lights. It’s 3 am and no one is out and you remember the times when you were a kid and you fell asleep in the backseat of your parents’ car, and you woke up when the engine cut, but you pretended to sleep anyway so your dad would carry you in. And you opened your eyes to see those same stars in the same type of quiet night and somehow, all these years later, you feel like that kid in the night under those stars again. I guess that’s how I would describe the feeling.

I was only out walking on the field trails for about fifteen minutes before the sun shifted entirely below that horizon and the dogs and I faded with it. Just a moment before I looked up and spotted a large mule deer on the skyline. His tall rack reached to the sky, and he was backlit by the last moment of yellow, a black dramatic silhouette staring right at something moving in the distance (that something was me) before bouncing off over the hill to disappear too.

Yesterday I got the news that my cancer is shrinking, has shrunk, will shrink more. We found out when we were in Mayo last week, but we needed one more confirmation to make it official. My husband sat next to me in the car as we were parked in the Walmart parking lot on our way through one town to get to the next for a meeting across the state. We video conferenced in for a quick confirmation. You look good. Things look good. Cancer is shrinking, has shrunk, will shrink more. See you in three months for another follow up, goodbye. We ended the call and continued driving east.

“It feels like maybe that news needed a bit more fanfare,” I said as we moved down the street a bit.

“Like, what do you mean?’ my husband asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. It was the same feeling I felt when I completed my last chemo treatment and I was alone with my little pin and too introverted to ask someone to take my picture. The moment felt at least selfie-worthy, but I wasn’t in the mood.

“Maybe a cake or something?” I laughed.

“Well, there’s Cashwise, want me to pull in?” he joked.

No. No I didn’t, I realized. I didn’t want a cake or a party or a fuss really. I just wanted to go about our day, make it to our meeting on time and home that night because we had work in the morning. I wanted to watch that moment, that tumor, that blip, shrink and disappear into the horizon of my life. To disappear is sometimes the dream.

The nights will be longer now as the sun sets sooner, but it’s ok. I’ve never been the kind of kid who’s afraid of the dark.

Villages everywhere

Posted on April 29, 2026 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

When I heard the news about a six-week stay in Rochester, the turnover needed to be quick to make the arrangements to get things rolling. And first and foremost, I needed a place to stay. There’s an option here for free housing for cancer patients undergoing treatments, and there are apartments and Airbnbs and long-term hotels and so I set to looking into what was available. And then I set into being overwhelmed. And then I got a message in my inbox.

“Thinking and praying for you. We own a townhome in Rochester and we don’t have a tenant now. If you’d like to stay there, we’d be honored to have you.”

It was a column reader, a concert attender, a fellow North Dakotan who had nothing to gain from the offer but to show kindness. Her family, unfortunately, knows what it’s like to be displaced by cancer. She was paying it forward.

I took a quick breath and tears came to my eyes. I messaged back to take her up on it and a wave of relief washed over in her response.

This is that village they’re talking about, only sometimes they take care of you while taking care of their own ailing loved-ones hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

I’m writing this now from their little back deck facing a small field on the edge of town under a blanket my friends put in a care package full of carefully researched gifts: throat spray, notebooks, crossword puzzles, cough drops, tea, a nail kit, candy, a thermos and more all in a bag I load up with me on days I head to chemo treatments. And what was so touching about the gift is that the givers seemed to have researched more than I had about the symptoms that I may encounter and the things that I may need to send me on my way as ready as can be.

My little sister did the same thing, the master of Google, asking me questions that I didn’t know the answers to, she found out for me. And she sent me groceries for the first night we arrived at the townhome. And because I am who I am, I accidentally gave her the address to the Post Office instead of the house, which sent Chad on a little field-trip at 8 am, but we got them and were stocked up for the first week.

My little sister is the queen of my village, living right over the hill and working in our daughters’ school as the guidance counselor, I couldn’t have picked a better woman to take it from here. I mean, as my daughter said, “Can we just stay at Alex’s? She’s just like mom.” I’m comforted knowing that with her my kids feel safe to be themselves, even when it’s ugly and messy and emotional. They can misbehave and not feel ashamed. She will get after them the same way I do, hold them to the same standards, and force my youngest into group hugs when she needs it and won’t admit it.

And she’ll let them try to catch the chickens and make sure they have fun.

Meanwhile, friends are sending spaghetti and roast beef suppers home with my husband a couple days a week so he doesn’t have to worry about meals every night. And they’re taking the girls on play dates and making sure they get their 4H presentation done. The lemons-to-lemonade theory is in full effect as they’ve spent special time with their other aunts, uncles and cousins and of course, they’re grandparents.

Turns out the best thing in the world you can do for your kids is to set up that village. I’m seeing first-hand, again, what it means.

A fun gift basket for the girls sent with a meal from a friend

But I’m here to tell you that I know I am fortunate to have placed our lives in the middle of family and friends I have known for decades. It was a choice my husband and I made when we knew we wanted to have a family, and there are some sacrifices that come with that, but they have never outweighed the rewards. I understand fully that being surrounded by family is not a reality for everyone and I know the struggles that come with that. And I know it’s so hard to find those friends who you can rely on to be fully vulnerable in a community that hasn’t always been yours. I’d like to give some sort of profound advice here, but I don’t have any. I just have examples of how people showing up for us has informed my life and made me realize that existing in the village means paying attention not only to your own needs but to the needs of others. I’m here to tell you it is as simple as a text, a card dropped in the mail, an actual phone call without the expectation that they will pick up or call back. I am the first to admit I am not so good at that. But you all are teaching me every day during this blip in my life what it means to be cared for and I thank you for that. I thank you for being my village at home and from hundreds of miles away.

Who are we without one another?

Visiting Home

Posted on April 21, 2026 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

After I completed the second week of my six week cancer treatment at Mayo Clinic, I was able to get back to the ranch for the weekend. I spent Saturday morning helping coach Edie’s first soccer game

and Saturday night dancing with my husband and celebrating with family and friends at a gala we host to raise money for arts and parks and recreation programming in our community.

My treatment schedule allowed me to stay home all day on Sunday to spend time with my family. It turned out the first calf of the year waited for me to get home to be born and so I got to be part of the start of the season. Calving on our place always coincides with crocus season, so my sister and I packed the girls into or side-by-side (which is harder to do these days now that they’re growing up so fast) and popped up to the hilltops to collect a hat full and deliver them to grandmas in exchange for ice cream. I got to see the new kittens that were just born and meet my sister’s new little chickens, sit in the sun on my parents’ deck, visit with my in-laws who came down to watch the girls for our night out, scratch the dogs’ ears, shoot a million hoops with the girls and eat my husband’s grilled hamburgers before packing my bags and getting back on a plane. All of these things that are part of the regular programming held extra shine for me, of course.

Up until this point I have been able to see the girls every weekend, but I’m not sure now exactly when I’ll be back before the end of this. I guess it all depends on how I feel, but it will be at least two more weeks. I fought back tears the whole trip.

It’s a strange thing to be a weekend visitor of your own home, especially when you consider yourself the Co-CEO of the operation. In some ways the visit reminds you of the ways you’re needed, like the un-swept floors, the girls’ rooms that noticeably haven’t had a mom’s reminder and the Christmas lights that still need to come down off the house. These are the things I pay attention to, but they aren’t that important. The important things are handled just fine without me—getting to and from school, cooking and the meal-train that my friends set up to help Chad, after-school activities, bedtime snuggles, playing at the cousins’, homework—to know that I can step away and leave our lives generally unscathed, except for maybe the matters of the heart, is a gift.

But then that leaves me here, in this duplex, hundreds of miles from that life, with only myself to take care of for the first time since we got married nearly 20 years ago.

Now, I travel quite a bit with my music, so it’s not uncommon for me to be on my own and away from the family for a week at a time, maybe twice a year or so. It seems like this has helped prepare the girls and myself for this weird blip better than if I was a full-time stay at home mom. So that’s a blessing. But people have been asking me how I’m doing in terms of my energy-level, and to be honest, I haven’t been as rested since before Edie was born.

I went grocery shopping the other day and had to ask myself, what do I eat? What do I cook if it’s just for me? I picked up a box of macaroons and raspberries and just sort-of wandered around because well, I had time to do that–time to wander the grocery store without little people trailing behind me or a rush to get to the next meeting or event.

In every community I visit when I am traveling for music or work, I always picture what my life would be like if I lived there. If I have time, I like to walk their parks or neighborhoods or visit their cute cafes and shops and get to know the place and how I feel in it a bit. Here in Rochester, I imagine I would be a bike rider using their pretty paths along the river every night. And I would have a little dog for my lap on the couch and a big dog to come with on those bike rides and walks. I would have a nice lawn to mow and pretty flowers out front that the deer would eat. I would have a job in marketing or run a little shop or, maybe something like I do now, and my kids would play soccer in that cute park I walked past last night. There was a time I thought a community like this was where I would wind up, before moving home to the ranch was an option. If it did become my fate, I will tell you, there would have been a scooter era.

In preparing my mind for my time here away from my family I lined up some goals for myself, like get outside every day so I don’t go crazy, play my guitar more, do some sit-ups and pushups, read a book, start work on my new book and doodle–all the things working parents wish they had time for when we’re in the thick of parenting things. As it turns out, trying to morph back into a single, child-free woman for a few weeks at a time after a twenty-year hiatus is weird. To be honest, I’m spending most of my time working. And there’s a nice blessing in that too.

But I’m also eating avocado toast for breakfast and those macaroons whenever I want without judgement. And doing some sit-ups and always getting outside. I’ve considered knocking on my neighbor’s door to see if she needs me to walk her dog, but I probably won’t. That might be weird too.

Thank you for all the love and support you’ve sent my way during this journey. I read every card and every email and, by the time you read this, well, I’ll be half way done!

Onward!

Night worries

Posted on October 29, 2024 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

This morning I dreamed of the rain.

The window to our bedroom was open and in my dreams I smelled it and heard it falling on the oak leaves still clinging tight to the branches. In our bed, between my body and my husband’s, our youngest daughter slept. Sometime during the darkest hours of the night, she wedged herself there, as she usually does, on a sleepy hunt for her father.

She is still only six. Or, she’s almost seven! She should sleep through the night on her own by now! We go back and forth on where we land with this, but in the middle of the night when the child needs someone to hold on to, neither one of us feels the need to fight it too hard. She’ll be grown soon. The bed is big enough. She won’t need us like this forever. I pull back the covers and I let her in.

I woke this morning to my alarm singing. Last week at this time, the sky would have been pink with the sunrise. This morning it was black.

“It’s time to wake up,” I huffed into the dark as my bare feet searched for the floor.

“Did it rain? Or did I dream it?”

My husband rolled over to try to wake our daughter and told me it wasn’t a dream. I pressed my face to the window screen to smell it the way I smelled it in my dream.

Even with the rain falling, my sleep wasn’t restful. My mind woke my body to worry about bills and things I shouldn’t have said and the work I should have done by now. And then enter the state of the suffering in the world, then of people I know and love, and things I can’t possibly change. Not at 3 am. Not ever.

Why is the quietest part of the night the loudest in my head?

Last week I visited a tiny town in North Dakota to play some music for a special event. In my career as a touring musician, I’ve had the privilege of learning how so many rural communities choose to bring people together, on a blocked off Main Street, in a Legion Club steel building, in an old high school gym, in parks and on patios. I perch myself up behind a microphone to tell stories to people listening intently or to a room full of folks who just want to visit, my music the backdrop to their conversations about the weather, the hay crop, the football team, the latest local tragedy or scandal. I use the word privilege because I regard the opportunity that way, even when the night is long and it feels like no one is listening. I get a front row seat to watch it all play out, who’s refilling the punch bowl and swapping the casserole dishes. Who’s folding programs and is the only one who knows how to turn on the old sound system. Who makes her rounds to each table to say hello. Who sticks around after to put away the folding chairs. Who’s kid grabs the big broom when the room is all cleared out.

Usually, I’m sent down the road with an extra centerpiece or noodle salad or a bag full of sandwiches and plenty of kind words and “thanks for coming all this way,” sometimes apologetically, as if their community isn’t as deserving of a visit as any other community in this country.

The air feels heavy as the weight of an election year makes big waves, moving through our conversations, across our kitchen tables, streaming through our speakers, screaming in the street. I lay awake last night and wondered, after all my life experience on the road and working in small towns, why it’s easier to holler enemy than try to understand one another. We’re making rivals out of our neighbors. It’s unsettling.

If I’m being honest, I’ve written and re-written the next two paragraphs a dozen times. Because I’m not sure what to say next. Here’s what I chose: Maybe you too were up in the quiet hours of the night with a loud head and a heavy heart. Maybe you felt lonesome or helpless, even with someone lying right next to you. Maybe you stood up and walked to the kitchen to feed your body and look at the moon. Maybe you slept soundly and dreamed about rain. Maybe you didn’t sleep at all.
And maybe, in the midst of your insomnia, your daughter crawled in bed with you because she needs to be close. She needs to feel safe and loved. She needs something to hold on to.

And maybe, in the most tumultuous times, we could be brave enough to consider she’s all of us…