Tag Archives: North Dakota

Friends like this…

Posted on by
12

I am coming off of the best vacation high this Monday morning. There was cooking and wine, friends and games and outdoor adventures and wildlife sightings, singing, baby snuggling, great conversation, laughter, celebration and sitting under the stars in a hot tub with a Champaign toast.

The best part? I didn’t have to get out of my stretchy pants or put on a stitch of makeup.

Not once.

The other best part? I didn’t have to leave home.

Because these really wonderfully beautiful (inside and out) friends of ours chose to celebrate a huge accomplishment and an exciting step in their funky and exciting lives by braving the winter chill to load up their own stretchy pants and scarves to take the three-hour trip through oil country to visit us at the ranch in the middle of nowhere–despite an awkward phone call from yours truly the morning before their departure explaining that they may or may not have power or water or lights when they got here, but please, we would love to have you anyway.

Without batting an eye, they loaded up a few extra pairs of wool socks and another bottle of booze and headed for the hills, unfazed by the potential of an authentic roughing it old-school style experience.

These are my kind of people.

Heading out on our snow-shoe trip to work off all the wine and food we had the night before.

So once the power returned, my vacuum and I got reacquainted. Then I introduced myself to the Windex bottle and that went so well that I thought it would be a perfect time to meet my mop and just like that my cleaning supplies and I we were set for their arrival.

The arrival of two people who deserved a great getaway after years of higher education and a final exam that added a second Master’s degree to the couple’s accomplishments and a great adventure ahead. And I am so proud of them, even though it means they are going to pack up their little car and move further away from me.

But I guess it’s not always about me is it?

Damn.

Anyway normally when we have company at the ranch I try to come up with some activities we can do to show them around the place and help them fall in love and relax and have a little adventure. I schedule in meals and music and a little trip somewhere down the road to the lake or the river or the badlands. And we take photos and take it easy because I want them to remember it fondly. I want them to come back for crying out loud.

Crunching through the hard packed snow, with a sprinkle of fresh stuff floating in the air...

But these guests of mine have been here before. The have ridden our horses, zipped off to the lake to take a boat ride, hiked and barbecued with us in the summer sunshine and chatted under the stars at the campfire. And I think they genuinely love the place and its open skies and rolling buttes and coyotes howling at sunrise and sunset. I think they’re already sold.

Heading into the trees and the deep snow...

cutting a trail...

They love it so much that they can overlook the work that needs to be done here when the snow melts–the building that needs a new roof, the deck that will be replaced, the old equipment that is scheduled to be moved, the fencing that needs to be done. They don’t think twice about it because they understand, that this is what a working ranch looks like. And it isn’t always perfect. The fences don’t always align and the paint on the buildings don’t always match.

Husband telling a story of how elk live here in the summer...

But that’s not why they come.

Playing fetch with some enthusiastic participants...

They come to see us, to eat husband’s homemade noodles and the steak he cooked on the grill in sub-zero temperatures. They come to tell us their stories and hear ours. They come to laugh and teach us a card game and make a toast to friendship and accomplishments. They come to meet my sister and nephew. They come to tease me for my quirks and be the punch line for my jokes. They come to talk about marriage and life’s inconveniences and their adventures and worries and fears and to hear they’re not alone.

And to make sure we know that we aren’t either.

They come to walk the hills and take with them a new experience–to breathe in the wild, fresh air I tell them I love so much.

They come to love it too.

Climbing the hill...

taking in the view...

getting out the binoculars...

to spot...

...buffalo on the horizon

And as our friends packed up their car to head down the road and back to their home I realized I am not sure when I will see them again as they head off into a new adventure that will take them across the country and miles and miles from us. But I am not worried, because this friendship that we’ve found is worth traveling for. And we will make plans to see them in their world, just as they have done for us. We will make plans to walk their hills and eat at their favorite restaurants and drink their coffee and meet their family and hear their stories.

Because that’s what friends do. The come and see you.

And they don’t care if you don’t vacuum, or if your microwave is the first model ever invented, or if your dog got in the garbage while you weren’t paying attention, or if they didn’t see you in real pants or makeup the entire duration of the visit. Because they are right there with you, stretchy pants and all, whipping up a perfect batch of guacamole and helping with the dishes and laughing in the little old house behind the snowbanks in the middle of nowhere, together while the coyotes howl at the stars.

Here’s hoping you have friends like that.

From spring fever to no heater

Posted on by
14

NOTE: What you are about to read was written yesterday afternoon with every optomistic hope that it would indeed make it to the internet and to your supportive and beautiful eyes before the day was over. What I didn’t expect was a morning blizzard that turned into an afternoon with no power that carried its party on into the night, only to jolt me out of bed at 3 am with “SURPRIZE! Power’s back and I  left every light in the house on. Idoit.”

So good morning. I’ve never been so happy to see the sun and to hear that damn bathroom faucet (the one we need to fix) drip.

But you know, little experiences like that, the ones where you can’t bathe, or watch television and surf the internet at the same time and then plop a hot-pocket in the microwave, toast a waffle and reheat soup from last night (I must be cooking in this scenario) while turning the lights off and on at your own free will are good for a couple every once in a while. It forces you to be innovative and creative with your forms of entertainment and heat sources. It makes you light candles and wear that fashionable headlamp you usually only get to wear camping. It gives you a chance to practice those shadow puppets and still make it to bed by 7:45…

This is what I saw when I tried to look at husband last night...And "Tell it to the light" was his response to everything I said. Hilarious. Just. Hil.Ar.Iou.s.

Whew, am I rested.

Anyway, read on to catch my perspective of what I was sure to be a dire situation that wasn’t meant to end well yesterday afternoon.

Today seems a bit brighter…mostly because I think my body temperature is back in that normal range again and I have lived to tell you about it…

From spring fever to no heater

We had a glimpse of spring here this week. And when I say glimpse, I mean snow melting, water rushing, big huge puddles, mud, wind, sunshine–the whole thing. It was a little freaky.

I mean, I could see grass on the hills. I haven’t seen grass since Halloween!

I was so excited about the whole thaw thing that I attempted to go out walking in the hills yesterday, figuring I could balance on top of the shoulder-high drifts long enough to get me to the open spaces and up and on with my life without my trusty snowshoes.

I was wrong.

And found out about how wrong in the first three seconds I veered off of the exposed scoria road, (oh dirt how I’ve missed you) climbed up the first bank and fell into snow up to my crotch…

with both legs….

I was utterly stuck. …

Damn those cookies.

Damn the cream cheese I smear on everything.

Damn the butter and the frosting and the chips that taste so much better with guacamole and cheese…

Anyway that was that. At least now I know I have a little more “Lassie” style training to do with the dogs to get them to assess these types of situations and then go for the rope …or at least to the neighbor with a couple barks signifying that, “What Chug the Pug? Jessie is stuck in a, uh, snowbank?”

Yes, this snowbank. The one I thought was no big deal. They are laughing at me. LAUGHING!

We will have to work on that.

So, with no help from my companions, I pulled and dug and scrambled and panicked and sweated and kicked and cussed and wept a little until I got my sorry ass, attached to my jelly legs attached to my wool stocking-clad feet shoved into major moon-boots up and out of there…

…whew….

I decided to continue my walk on the road.

The glorious road that was clear and dry and winding and pink just the way I remember it.  No traffic. No dust. No ice. No snow. Just me in my ten-pound moon boots and my worthless pups clumping along like the old days of summer (give or take a few layers).

And just like that I decided I could get used to this spring thing.

Before the thaw...

After. Ok, ok, not a huge improvement, but this girl takes what she can get...

And just like that it all turned on me as I rose from my slumber this morning to prepare for my 75-mile trek to get to a meeting by 9:00 am. And you might think that’s a long way to go for a meeting, but I must remind you that my beloved small town-hometown is 30 miles away. The nearest Wal-Mart?  75 miles.  My meeting was not in Wal-Mart, but it’s the best I can do get it across that 75 miles is nothing for us and our road weary vehicles with the dirt caked bodies, cracked windshields and missing headlight (well, maybe that’s just my vehicle…)

Anyway, these types of regular trips have been particularly trying this winter with the uncommon weather we have been experiencing here. But this morning I wasn’t thinking anything of it because my spring fever had carried over from the previous afternoon you see. Nothing could stop me. Not the icy fog. Not the freezing rain. Not the chilly, snow infested 50 mph wind, not the zero visibility or the big truck in the ditch, not…wait…what the hell? Why are these people in the ditches? Why can’t I see? Why am I driving 5 miles per hour?

Where am I?

Well, almost a good half way to my destination that’s where. Half way there and this girl with the tulips and green grass growing in her brain had to turn her frozen ass around in order to hold on to hope of ever seeing the pug…I mean her husband again…

Don't worry. I'm coming for you!

So I did.

And stopped in town along the way to have my pops drive me the rest of the way because I was tired of seeing my life flash before my eyes.

It’s exhausting.

And it’s the least he could do for his daughter who has to stay here to hold down the frozen fort while he traipses off to Jamaica with his dearly beloved.

Bitches.

Anyway…

…so now I’m home.

Whew.

And it’s 1:30 in the afternoon.

Perfect.

And the power’s out.

Wonderful.

So I did all of the things a woman can do to stay relatively productive in a primitive situation like this…like unload the dishwasher and catch up on Glamour Magazine and play some tunes on the guitar and say a prayer to the heavenly father that I wasn’t born during homesteading, pioneer, no flushable toilet days….

And I am now under the blankets wondering if the wind could actually blow this little house away….

So if you’re reading this at any point today, Thursday, it’s because the light and heat and water and telephone to the house that has been out at this point for a good two hours has finally been restored and my laptop battery lasted to the end of the point I am trying to make….

If you are not reading this I am frozen in my bed, cradling the pug for body heat, the cats are licking the remnants of the chips and salsa I ate for lunch off the front of my shirt and the lab has undoubtedly gone for help (because we had a discussion about never leaving me stranded again).

But you won’t know that until it hits the papers…because you are not reading this…

Oh, I hope that’s not the case, but oh, my fingers are starting to get a bit chilly and I’ve resorted to wearing my beanie indoors.

And so it seems I’ve made it to my point:

Sometimes the universe drops in your lap one single situation in which you have to search for an excuse NOT to take a nap.

And that, my friends, is the up-side of this situation.

Winter. It ain’t over ‘till it’s over.

Good Night.

When the thaw comes…

Posted on by
38

When the thaw comes

I’ll rip off these clothes

burn my wool sweaters

and boots with the fur

hide the blankets away

and cool down the tea

let the sun touch my bare skin

set the animals free

drown my scarves in the water that rushes the draw

and scream all the cold out my lungs…

when the thaw comes…

when the thaw comes…

when the thaw comes…

Saturday Night

Posted on by
28

It’s Saturday
It’s late
and we should be in town
Singing to the music from the speakers above the crowd

It’s Saturday
Your hands behind your head
kicked back the way you do
the dog curled up in bed

It’s Saturday
And I’m saying something like “We’re old”
as I slide into my slippers and your sweater
because it’s cold

It’s Saturday
The T.V.’s on
I flip through the stations
you boil water on the stove

And we could warm up the car
or give a friend a call
It’s the weekend after all

But it’s Saturday
and there’s no way
I would trade the nook of your arm
for great seats and half drunk beer

Yes, It’s Saturday
and there’s no way
you could get me out of here

The music

Posted on by
32

Last Friday my dad and his band, along with a couple young talented guys from my hometown, got together to play music in one of the local bars. They do this from time to time when schedules allow, so I took the trip to town to tap my toes, listen and sing with them– one of my favorite things to do in the entire world.

Something I’ve been doing for years every time I get the chance.

And it reminded me of something I wrote this summer after driving home from a night playing music in town with the guys. We loaded up the equipment in the pouring rain and drove home to our beds and our families. That night I felt I needed to talk about the music, to really try to get to the bottom of what it means. So I wrote it down, I analyzed, I remembered and thought it out. And then I tucked it away as I went on with the day-to-day and found my feet on the ground I love.

And started writing music again.

So last Friday I dug it out of the archives and I wanted to post it today.

The music

I want to talk about the music. I want to really tell you about.

But I am not sure where to start, and if I do, how to end.

I want to tell you how it takes over, how it tortures, how it aches and thrills and brings me to the highest highs and the lowest lows. How I nurtured it and ignored it. How I whispered it in the night air and screamed it in the hilltops and took it with me on the road and opened the doors wide and let it out. How I shut it in tight. How it haunts me and swells and lulls and crescendos and de-crescendos through my life. I want to tell you how it holds me and throws me down and then picks me up and laughs it off.

I want to tell you all of these things. I want to make you understand this blessing and this curse.

I got home late last night in the middle of a thunderstorm. My dad, with a trailer full of speakers and mic stands and guitars and crumpled song lists, drove me home into the night after an evening of playing with his band at an event in our hometown. It is an eclectic group of men–the band. And I could describe them here for you, but that would be a novel.

That would be an epic tale of triumph and creativity and struggle and friendship all wound up in their very own reasons they get together in bar rooms, around campfires, in living rooms and on porches across the country to play–to show off their instruments, sing into the dark and the smoke the words from the pens of like-minded men and women–songs from their own pens.

They tap their feet and drink from bottles after a long day in the office, in the field, on the road, in the oil patch or at home, alone, and they let it go. They push through worn voices, lines like “come away from your working day,” or “you’re spook’n the horses,” or “long may you run”– each song hand-picked by each man for something–something that matters.

And they get requests. They get requests to sing “Pretty Woman” or anything Garth Brooks or Simon and Garfunkel or “something we can dance to!”

And sometimes they oblige. Sometimes they do. But mostly they sing what ever the hell they want. Because they’ve been here before. They’ve played those requests and sat through sets in bars where the dancers were falling into equipment and laughing and cussing heartily to each other, drowning out perfect guitar riffs and damn passionate vocals and a great steel lead. They’ve driven into the night to get to the next show for the paycheck and the idea this might lead to something bigger. One of them has played to crowds of thousands and slept in tour busses and traveled the world. One of them has spent most of his musical career picking in the living room, looking for the voice to sing it out loud. One went from picking and singing in a traveling band, to alone in coffeehouses and restaurants, to sitting alongside a young daughter as she nervously sang her little heart out in front of her first real audience. All have found a home with the band.

These are the voices that sang to me the music I grew up with. The John Prine, the Lyle Lovett, the Bruce Springsteen, the EmmyLou Harris and the Neil Young came through on weathered guitars and equally weathered voices. I listened. I followed along.

And I fell in love. I took those voices, and started searching for my own at a pretty young age. I could go along here and describe to you the linear, biography type write-up of how I moved into and out of a career focused on music. That is important for press releases and websites, but not so important to me. What I want to explain is that I was never looking for fame and fortune or a chance to wear really great outfits with the songs I was writing and singing.

I was looking for a way to tell myself something.

I would walk out in the hills behind our house and sing at the top of my lungs where nobody could hear me, just to let myself let it out. It didn’t matter how my voice sounded, but I wanted to create something. I wanted to create something as beautiful and heart wrenching and cynical as the world I saw spinning around me. So I flung it out there and with a little coaxing, I began singing with my dad in public, then playing my guitar, then the songs that I wrote. And pretty soon people wanted me as at their conferences, their summer festivals, as their side act, their opening act, and sometimes, their featured attraction. Then I found myself on the road a bit, performing at colleges and as a guest on the local radio and small TV stations. Pretty soon I found myself wanting it too–knocking on doors, making phone calls, asking to play, auditioning, entering in contests, recording my music.

And then I had to explain myself.

“How do you write?” “How does it come to you?” “Did you take any formal classes?” “Who taught you to play guitar?” “Where do you want to go from here?”

And my favorite, “You should try out for American Idol.”

Pretty soon I was 23 and making a modest living off of rationalizing my worth as an artist, playing my music, proving myself and struggling to answer these questions.

But I don’t know how to answer them. I don’t know how to explain to anyone what I decide to write down, how the music comes out and the fact that most days I don’t think I’m much good anyhow. I don’t know how to explain how it got as far as it did, and then, how I stepped back a bit. I was given a wonderful opportunity to travel the mid-west and sing my songs and tell my stories and meet all kinds of wonderful people and see the United States from the inside of my Chevy Lumina. And it was a good gig for someone like me who had no idea what she was doing really.

But to be honest here I was a little lonely out there singing songs written about a place I loved, a place I kept packing up and leaving. And I could have gone on and on like this into my life, with small successes, telling my story, telling the world about what I love and not being there to love it. To live it.

Because to me the music was words and notes and callused fingers plucking the stories out of me and into that world that used to weigh on me, inspire me, scare me a little. To me the music was all of this. All of this and suddenly it was work too.

And so I felt I was being swallowed up a bit by the method of it all. I wanted the music, but I didn’t want to be launched, I didn’t want to be swallowed by it. I didn’t want it to take everything with it as we flew down the road to the next town.

So I backed off for a bit to remember exactly what it meant to me in the first place. To find that little girl singing in the trees again. And I tried to explain. Because some people can’t imagine being given a voice and a passion and not taking it to the bank for every thing it’s worth.

But that’s just it. What is it worth to me? What is it worth to the small town band playing their hearts out on a Saturday night to a bar crowd?

I remember when I was younger getting ready to go sing at an event during a warm summer weekend. I sat in the back seat of my parent’s car as they drove to the destination and I remember my secret struggle with this situation in which I found myself. I was thankful for the gift. I was thankful for my voice and my love for the music, but I thought to myself, at that moment, when I imagined my friends at the pool or hanging out together at the lake, free of the jitters, free of the nervous stomach before the performance, that they had it pretty good. For one moment, I thought maybe I didn’t want this responsibility.

But last night, as I was strumming alongside some of the most talented and rugged and honest men I know, I whispered a quiet “thank you” to God.  Because whatever the music can be, whatever expectations and struggles and disappointments and goals I have and have not achieved with this voice, I am grateful simply for what it is:

Sanity and creativity and holding on and sitting side by side with the people you love and singing into the night songs about traveling and the places you’ve been, songs about learning and death and standing up for a friend.

The connections, the mixing of voices, the harmony of two best friends, a mentor, a legend, a daughter, and a father swaying to the beat of their hearts in time to the music flying out of smiling lips and eyes squeezed shut with pure joy.

It is respect and trust enough to let it take you to a good place, a strong place where your soul speaks and all of the people you’ve loved and lost, those who lifted you up come to life for the moment.

It is finding the sound, taking a breath in unison, inviting strangers to sing along until they are no longer strangers.

It is packing up and driving into the thunderstorm at 1:30 am, rehashing the night, and the notes and the characters beside you. And making plans to sing again.

So I’d like to tell you about the music. I would. But I am sure to disappoint someone here, because what it means to me might not be what it means to you.

Because to me, it means everything.

Snowman Weather

Posted on by
24

Ok, so we had weather earlier this weekend that allowed the sun to shine and finally break down the hard, cold white a bit. Just enough to get its thaw on, to create nice drips off of the eaves, to allow some of the road to show, to create a little mud, to even soak your clothes when you’re out in it…

…making a snowman.

Now I know you are not the kind of people to judge a grown woman who choses to use her precious free time walking out in the hills on a windy day while thinking to herself: “perfect consistency…and I have just the right outfit” only to plop down on a whim and begin the age-old ritual of turning and churning and transforming the sticky drifts of white that really are starting to get on your nerves into something a little cuter.

A little more bearable.

Because it was coming to the end of a month that is historically tough on most North Dakotans (at least those who have to start a car or bundle up to go outside at any point in the course of 31 days) and I was starting to feel house bound, cold, melancholy and pasty white. I needed this thaw to defrost my mood.

And I needed to make a snowman dammit.

So when the blue skies opened up, like they often do on winter days in ND, and brought with it the sun and temperatures in the low 30s, you couldn’t keep me inside if you put bolts on the doors.

Because I would have crawled out the damn windows or up the chimney or taken the roof off if I had to.

I needed to be in the warm sun, no matter the howling wind.

Well, nobody locked me in the house or sealed the windows up. In fact, no one was even around the place on Friday afternoon to witness this little childish endeavor. And that’s ok. I didn’t need spectators or a partner in crime to help me achieve a January level of bliss. I just needed the perfect spot, my mittens, and all of that snow.

So I stepped out into the glistening bright world, strapped on my snowshoes, and marched for the hills, sinking in heavy white, trudging and puffing and sweating my way to the perfect spot…

…where I plopped.

I plopped down on my hands and knees and gathered up the sticky, wet, previously untouched snow as the wind whipped through my neckerchief and turned my cheeks the brightest shade of red. I gathered and rolled and patted and fluffed and shaped each ball together, imagining all of the snowmen of my youth. Remembering how we used to roll the snowballs until they grew so large we couldn’t possibly move them another inch. And then we started all over again with the second, enlisting help from the bigger, stronger, boys on the playground or our dads or big brothers to hoist the second snowball up, and then the third.

I smiled as I remembered how we would raid our parent’s coat closest for the perfect scarf, the wool cap, the gloves we would hang on the end of the sticks we managed to dig out of the snow for Frosty’s arms.

We would track snow through the kitchen and stick our rosy faces into the refrigerator looking for a carrot, because the man must have a carrot nose.

And what about the eyes? Rocks if it the snow melted enough to find them. Or coal if we knew where that was hidden.

Buttons on his chest? Maybe grandpa’s vest or dad’s old feed jacket.

And sometimes the man made out of snow would have a smile. Sometimes we would make a U-shaped trail under his nose with a piece of licorice or rocks or the appropriate ingredient found in the fridge.

But if the smile could not literally be made, if we could not find the proper ingredient, it didn’t matter.


Because by the time that snowman was all put together into a huge, towering man in a great outfit he was sure to sit in front yards, on playgrounds and on hilltops for months to come, slowly shrinking out of his clothes and his nose while bringing smiles of pride to the faces of the kids who made him and those who happened to walk or drive on by.

We all got the point.

Snowmen make you happy.

And it turns out they still do. Even when you are a bit older and a bit more affected by the stress of the weather and the pressure of a life that must go on despite the cold.

Even when they are put together by a woman determined not to lose her spirit again.

Even when they are out of site for the rest of the world.

Even if they look exactly like you.

Winter love and warmth from the ranch this week.

Don’t blow away!

Winter Horses

Posted on by
17


In this stark white world
I come to greet you

through fallen snow
that drifts to change the land I know

up hills
and across a frozen sea

you meet me there.

You see me bundled to the brim and wonder
what a girl is doing out here without a proper coat.

So you come closer

so I can bury my face in yours, thick and full
grown long to keep the cold at bay.

I breathe in the dust and sun and sweat–
the pieces of summer you’ve kept in your skin.

No, I have no coat like this.

Your mane is the wind,


your feet the dirt we miss.

Your breath the sweet green grass,
nose still the warmest touch…

your ears the slightest noise

easy boys…

I’m the only sound you hear

now look me in the eyes

so I can see the life we lived…

before the winter white set in

Horse on hill

 

Why we get our ice cream in town…

Posted on by
22

I just have a quick story to tell you all about a girl, her medicated zit, stretchy pants and a Fed Ex man in a Fed Ex van.

Well, I am not sure how quick it will be as I haven’t decided on how many details to provide so if  you know me, you better go fill your coffee cup and settle in…

See, once upon a time there was this girl who had to pay a price for all of the natural beauty and peace and quiet that surrounded her. And typically that price came in the form of inconvenient weather and malfunctioning equipment.

And always when she least expected it…

Now I think I may have briefly let you in on the debacle that was the Schwann’s Man’s attempt to reach our doorstep with his truck full of corn dogs, ice cream sandwiches, pot pies, and breaded vegetables before Christmas. And we welcome the Schwann’s Man with open wallets around here because being 30 miles away from the nearest grocery store, unless we install a little freezer in our car, our ice cream doesn’t stand a chance on a trip of that length with a working floor heater.

But when the Schwaan’s Man finds himself in our driveway, in his truck, stuck like a rock in concrete in two inches of snow, our chances at ice cream sandwiches for the next three to four months are pretty well shot to hell.

At least he still attempts to visit mom and pop.

And for good reason. See, as a woman who has worked from her home for a good amount of years, my mother has the Schwann’s Man thing down to an art. While other neighbors (I will not name names to protect the ice cream and convenience food refusers) shut off all of the lights and let the dog out when the big white freezer truck rolls down their driveway, my momma keeps track of the man’s arrival by placing that little orange dot on her calendar. And then she welcomes him (or her, there have been female Schwann’s Men…I mean people…in the past) inside for a cup of coffee while she presents her list and asks things like: “How are the roads?” “How’s your wife?” “Did little Jimmy pass that test?” “Any bad dog encounters lately?”

And the Schwann’s Person answers these questions and asks some of his or her own and then mom tries to sell them one of my CD’s while she crams her triple fudge swirl, chip ‘n mint, rocket pops and green beans into her already maxed out refrigerator.

My momma’s rapport with the Schwaan’s Man has been so positive over the years that it caused some controversy within the household when, at four-years-old, my little sister accused her own mother of having an affair with the man who brought ice cream.

But we blame that on all of the Day’s of Our Lives she was allowed to watch while mom was trying to get some work done…

Anyway, I tell you this to make sure you understand the remoteness of our living situation– nearest neighbor: at least one mile either direction. And in either direction there happens to lie some pretty gnarly, snow-covered, drifted in hills as of now. So sometimes the Schwaan’s Man was the only visitor we would get on those cold days in December.

The Schwaan’s man or Fed Ex.

And we have to be good to our guests…

Which brings me now to the stretchy pants and the zit.

See it was Martin Luther King Jr. day and I had settled in with plans of writing, testing out my new vacuum, organizing our laundry situation and maybe singing at the top of my lungs to the music I had turned up obnoxiously loud while I did it. Notice in this list of things to do that I didn’t squeeze time in for an activity like showering, brushing my teeth, putting on a fresh shirt or, you know, even looking in the mirror. I mean, it was a holiday, the snow was blowing outside my door and by my definition I was snowed in. There would be no unexpected visitors. I was safe within my cocoon of a house out at the bottom of a hill filled in with drifted snow.

On most days like these I would have been safe to put a little zit cream on the goiter that had sprouted in the middle of my forehead and skip the bra thing. No one would ever know.

Most days the only one judging my appearance would be the pug (and he can’t see me cause he’s asleep on the couch) and the lab, who would never point fingers.

Most days I would be safe.

But this was not most days. This was the day that husband was expecting a very important package. See, just a few days ago, unbeknownst to me, he had placed an order for…

wait for it…

..a portable oven…

…for his pickup.

Because every man dreams of being able to drive around while the smell of casserole or a hot pocket fills the cab of his truck with the aroma of a hot meal. The man must be really sick of sandwiches.

Anyway, husband knew this package was to arrive last Monday and he was happily on the phone with Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin to give him the much-needed directions and let him know that his wife would be in the house down the hill if Mr. Fill- in Fed Ex from Wisconsin needed me to come up the snowy hill with the big four-wheel drive to meet him.


And I would have known all of these plans and had adequate time to at least find some real pants with a button and a zipper if I hadn’t been so enthusiastically vacuuming every inch of our tiny home (ceiling included) and declaring the Dyson Animal a gift to man-kind while singing “Stand By Your Man” at the top of my lungs. I would have know about Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin’s arrival had I not missed all three or four calls to my cell phone and the half-dozen to the land line.

See, the Dyson picks up dirt and dog hair like a champ, but it sure is not quiet. And as soon as I shut the thing off, with a nice little armpit sweat going and beads of perspiration glistening on my forehead, really accentuating the zit, I put my hands on my hips and was just getting to the whole wiping my brow thing when I heard a knock on the door.

Must be pops, I thought to myself. He has the day off and he won’t judge me.

I took three swooping steps and swung open the front door.

Not pops.

Not pops, but Mr. Fill in Fed Ex from Wisconsin with really nice teeth and golden locks flowing from under his baseball cap.

“You must be Mrs. Scofield?”

“Err, ummm, yes. Yes. I guess I am. Hello.”

“Hello. Your husband told me you would be home.”

He handed me the package.

I suddenly became freakishly aware of the inappropriate use of toothpaste as zit cream and the muppet-like hairstyle I chose this morning.

“Hope I can make it up that hill,” said Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin as I began to shut the door. “Your husband didn’t tell me it was that steep and these vans don’t have four-wheel drive…”

Oh shit.

“Oh, ha. I hope you do too. Wow. It’s bad out there…”

I slammed the door. Ran to the bathroom to scrub my forehead. I found my bra. I found my pants with button and a zipper for crying out loud. I put on some damn socks. What’s wrong with you woman? Get it together! If by the grace of God Mr. Fill in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin makes it up that hill without any assistance I will never go a day without showering. I will never go a full day without swapping my stretchy pants for ACTUAL PANTS!

Fully clothed, hair tamed a bit, I pressed my nose against the window with hope that the tires on that massive “van” were covered with metal studs…the only way that thing was going anywhere.

But, alas, there were no studs. There was barely a tread on those tires. And Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin wasn’t even moving past the garage let alone up the hill, around a 90 degree turn and out of my life forever.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I called husband. He might have advice.

No answer.

I called Pops. Maybe he’s home and would come and rescue me from awkward conversation and the chance that I may have to attempt to help this Fed Ex Man in distress.

He was not home. He was driving away from the situation, but while his cell phone broke up, I thought I could hear the words “You” and “Pull him” and “Out.”

I decided I needed a second opinion and called the neighbor.

No answer.

Husband called back and I thought I heard the same advice I thought I heard come from pop’s voice box.

“Jess, unless you want a three to four hour coffee guest,  you will have to pull him out yourself.”

Sigh.

I stepped into my boots just as Mr. Fill-In Fed Ex Man was approaching my door with a look of panic and defeat.

Panic, because he no doubt had no intentions of serving as a three to four-hour coffee guest in the house of a crazy woman in sweat pants and what appeared to be the start of a horn growing out of her forehead.

“Uh, yeah. I’m stuck,” he said.

And his face turned from defeat to terror as I informed him while pulling on my overalls and beanie with the ball on top that I was his only hope.

That this sorry ass would be pulling his sorry ass out.

I will note here that I do not fake confidence well. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do and that is the thought that was going through my head as I found husband’s tow rope, started up the Chevy and put it into gear to pull forward…

…and didn’t move.

I put it in reverse. Not budging.

I put it in drive. Not going anywhere.

I checked the 4-wheel drive. I put it in reverse again.

Stuck. Or something like it.

Not actually the pickup I was using, but you get the dramatic point I am making...

Oh great. I didn’t even have any Schwaan’s food to offer this man! We are officially stranded! We will be out here alone, the two of us and the only thing I have to eat is a couple tortilla chips and a brown banana. Sweet mercy, we’ll starve!

Mr. Fill in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin with his pearly white teeth gave me some space while I attempted to maneuver husband’s pickup a few more times and then…

Tap,tap.

I rolled down the window.

“Are you stuck.”

“Ha, ha, I guess I’m stuck too.”

I got out of the pickup and Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin got in. I discreetly pulled the phone from the pocket of my jacket, turned my face away from the disturbing scene and dialed husband.

“The Fed Ex guy is driving your pickup. I hope that’s ok. See. Well. It was stuck. Yeah. Well. I couldn’t get it out…oh, wait…oh…there it goes…never-mind. He got it out. Bye now!”

And as I stood there like a helpless little woman in oversized overalls and a beanie with a ball on my head, Mr. Fill-In Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin pulled the pickup over to his “van,” hitched the two vehicles together with husband’s giant rope and told me to drive.

“Just drive me on up and out and past the approach until I get straightened out and then I should be good to go.”

Well, you remember how I told you there are snow covered hills on either side of our home sweet home? Yeah, I had that in mind as I pushed on the gas and drug that Fed Ex Man in his Fed Ex Van up out of our drive, around the 90 degree angle drifted in with snow, to the top of the hill with the grain bins, to the right on the main road and I didn’t stop until I had that Fed Ex Man in the Fed Ex Van at the very top of a hill I was sure he could coast down.

And when I finally looked back I may have caught a glimpse of Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin waving his hands in the air in panic, begging me in sign language to stop. Stop dragging him down the gravel road! Where are you taking me? How much further? Oh sweet mercy what have I gotten myself into? Who is this woman?

But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And I have never trusted a vehicle without 4-wheel drive so sometimes you just have to point in the right direction. And in the winter, that direction is down hill and right past the Veeder ranch approach, which no doubt has come to be known by delivery drivers in this area as the black hole.

I guess we’ll be getting our ice cream and our packages in town from now on.

Oh the price we pay for the simple life.

Winter Optimist vs. Snowshoes vs. January in ND

Posted on by
30

January. Oh January. A challenging month for even the most optimistic North Dakotan. One could easily throw in the towel around here, especially with the uncharacteristic snow accumulation we have seen already this winter, but most of us stick around.

Or go to Jamaica for a couple weeks.

Some people do this.

Wusses.

But the glass-half-full individuals, we put on another layer and say things like “Wow, that snow…hard to drive in it, but gorgeous isn’t it?”

or “Whew, it’s cold out there…great day for chicken noodle soup.”

And my favorite

“Halfway through. Once we get through January, it’s all downhill…spring’s just around the corner.”

I imagine these phrases come out of the mouths of the residents of our neighboring states (oh, and Canada) in all directions, in our typically northern accents, patting one another on the back while brushing snow out of our hair and stomping our feet on the rug, cheeks rosy from the bite of the wind.

Yes North Dakota Januarys bring out the true colors of our people:  the Jamaican cruisers, the Arizona dwellers, the optimists and the people who are not phased  who expect it and keep their mouths shut and Carharts on. There are the non-natives that are so damn cold they can’t keep the coffee coming in fast enough. There are the natives that love it because every new inch brings a new story about a neighbor they had to pull out of the ditch or the challenges of getting the cows fed or how the Schwann’s man got stuck in their yard and didn’t even offer a complimentary package of corn dogs for all the trouble you went to in digging the southerner out…twice.

But always, no matter who is residing in this, picking up their children from school, breaking ice, enjoying winter sports, there is astonishment at how it can possibly keep snowing and how it ever was summer.

Ever.

And then the stories, the comparison from winter to winter come rolling in.

“This is bad, but not as bad as the winter of ’77. Or ’96.”

“Do you remember last Christmas when we couldn’t even get our doors open?”

Or

“I heard (insert name of town forty to fifty miles away) got another 10 inches.  Can you imagine? Boy we were lucky.”

These are conversations you will hear in every diner, in every gas station while you are pumping your gas and shifting your weight back and forth against the cold, in line at the bank, by the cheese section in the grocery store, or at coffee with your neighbors.

Oh, I love it. The drama of this season.

For me, a self proclaimed winter optimist who has uttered the aforementioned phrases, I have to confess at times this season (and this month especially) make me feel a bit like a recluse. Like, all I want to do is wrap myself in a blanket and write songs about how cold I am and how much I love the warm body in bed next to me and chicken noodle soup and coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon and warm baths and my  snow suit and neckerchief.

Yes, winter has typically been my creative time, not sure why, but I think it forces me to get inside my own head and listen…either that or take a nap. Cause it’s so damn quiet out here.

Anyway, I can’t remember if I told you or not, but for Christmas I received a shiny new pair of snowshoes from my in-laws. I have great in-laws.

I got snowshoes and husband got a kayak and now I am torn between wishing the summer to hurry and come back or the winter to stay…because we have toys.

We’ve never really had toys.

Anyway, since no amount of wishing will warm up this world and even though we are tempted to take a run down the nearest snow-covered hill in the new kayak, we know better. So I have so been enjoying exploring our winter wonderland in my snowshoes. Which seems like a safe winter activity. Much safer than thrusting a body attached to skis down a mountain at great speeds…or you know, doing the same in a little canoe type thing…

So the snowshoes are marvelous. I can go places on the ranch that I can’t even go in the summer because of unruly vegetation and mushy creek beds. I put those things on and I feel like Jesus, impossibly walking on the ocean’s water…only my ocean is white and cold and the waves don’t move the same way.

I attached my winter body to the fantastic contraptions for the first time last week and laughed with evil glee as my pups fell through snowbanks and frolicked and fell and tumbled headfirst into drifts while I effortlessly glided on up and over and down and around, like Jesus…wait, I think I used that already…well anyway, you get the point…

And I could go on and on, but I want to tell you a quick story about how snowshoes seem like a great idea, especially when you are on a mission to get in shape and actually be useful on the ranch. They are a wonderful invention that turns an inconvenient pile up of snow into a grand and beautifully daring adventure, and a way to get around the place to check things out, until you forget that the temperature gauge dangling outside your window does not report windchill and halfway through your trip to find the horses, which turned up a lot of footprints and turds, but no actually horses, you discover that the snot that has been plaguing your nostrils the entire trip (as snot does in cold weather) is actually not snot at all.

Because it is blood.

It is blood and it is gushing down your face and onto your scarf and staining the white snow. And just moments before you discovered this new turn of events you felt you were a bit tired, but could make it the mile back to the house with little effort. Because you are an outdoors woman. This winter is no match for you and your snow suit and your muscles.

But now there is blood.

Now there is blood and you quickly become aware that you are indeed alone out there in the wilderness. You think you might freeze to death.

Alone.

Because there is blood.

And you are cold and cannot possibly go one more step. And your feet are heavy. And you are sinking in the snow. You know you are sinking in the snow. What? Aren’t these snowshoes supposed to keep you up on this stuff? LIKE JESUS?!

Oh Martha Stewart, the house is far.

And there is blood…why…why…why?!!!!

The beautiful, snow-covered trees that you were photographing without a care in the world just moments before suddenly become obstacles  looming just to get in the way of your safety.

Those drifts so deep, your feet so heavy, the dogs no help at all…those dogs just carrying on, sniffing each other chasing birds all happy and free like there is no one bleeding out here!!!

Oh lord there is blood and the house is so far away…

…those damn horses…

…damn exercise…if you ever make it back alive you vow to stay snuggled up on the couch where normal people belong in the winter. Who do you think you are? A mountaineer?

No. You decide you are not a mountaineer. You are a pale, pasty woman with noodle arms who belongs in the house writing songs about warm blankets and soup and love, not out here like some kind of crazy adventurer…

…you put your hand to your face…

…still bleeding…still blood…still the potential to die…or faint and then freeze to death and then die….

…you trudge up the hill, you stop to make sure you’re still alive.

And you are.

You are alive and you eventually make it home, sweaty and bloody and panting with the panic of it all. You make it home and realize, to your relief,  that the funeral plans you made for yourself on the long, bloody trudge home can be written down and saved for the next near death experience…which you are certain you will never have because you are never leaving home again…

Home.

Where the horses and one mule are standing right in front of your door licking the salt off your car and laughing at you and your bloody, crusty nose.

You may have even heard one of them call you a weirdo.

Probably.

Damn horses.

This may or may not have happened to someone, somewhere.

And it may be funny or tragic, depending on the level of your optimism.

Oh January, how you taunt me.

Be careful out there.

Love,

A Winter Recluse turned Mountaineer turned Recluse again

until we’re warm again

Posted on by
43

I can’t be your warmer breeze
no, I can’t be her right now
I can’t be your brown worn hands
damp hair, your sweaty brow

I can’t be the evening mist
or the clouds that roll on by
I can’t be your blades of grass
the lightning in your sky

I cannot be barefoot
or younger than today
can’t be your rain boots or your fishing pole
or make the summer stay

But I can stand beside you
under skies of gray and white

and on the long and starlit nights

I’ll be your wool cap and your overcoat
your coffee and the broth in which your dumplings float
I will wrap my arms around where your scarf has been
wrap them tight around your neck until we’re warm again