To be nowhere
But in the moment.
This moment.
Is exactly where you need to be.
Where you’re needed.
4
Tag Archives: photography
The making of a dog.
Remember this little girl?
OMMMGEEEE she was so fluffaaaayyy I could diiieee!!!
Yes, that was Juno, The Littlest Cow Dog last winter when we brought her home to the ranch in Pops’ pickup. I held her the whole thirty-some miles while she drooled all over my arm and shook with fear or anticipation or nervousness or whatever it is that goes through a little puppy’s head when she’s taken away from her momma.
We had high hopes for that puppy that day. Our old cow dog, Pudge, limpy, gimpy, faithful, storm fearing, fur tangled, sweet as sugar, gramma Pudge is getting a little too arthritic to make it on long rides or up into the pickup box by herself. She has retired to sleeping on her soft pillow under the heat lamp and occasionally accompanying us to the barn or down the road to get the mail. It’s tough to admit that any day now Pudge will take her last 4-wheeler ride, but it’s clear looking into those sweet ancient eyes that it’s the truth. And without Pudge the Veeder Ranch would be left cow-dog-less.
Because, contrary to the pug’s delusions he doesn’t quite fit the bill.
And so we found Juno. Part border collie. Part blue heeler. Part angel and part acrobatic, magical boot sniffer-outer and chewer-upper. (Seriously. It doesn’t matter how you put those boots on the shelf, she’s gonna get them and she’s gonna eat them).
When Juno found herself on her new ranch she was a bundle of energy, fur and timid playfulness. Everyone fell in love.
My mom wanted her to sleep in the house.
I wanted her to sleep at my house.
And Chug the Pug wanted to move to mom and dad’s house.
Even Pudge, who had been getting up slower and slower every day found a new swig of youthfulness that she occasionally employs to chase her new garage-mate around the yard.
Funny what a wave of youth and fluff and plain cuteness can bring to an old place.
But Juno was meant to be more than a cute companion. That’s the thing here. Cow dogs have many important responsibilities, and when you’ve got a pup on your hands who’s only interest seems to be digging holes, spilling the food dish and chewing the fingers out of your best leather gloves, a large part of you wonders what you’ve got on your hands here (besides fingerless gloves).
Yes, cow dogs have a punch list and Juno, cute as she was, wasn’t an exception. She needed to grow up to be:
Gentle with children but rough on varmints who might wander into the yard.
Sweet and obedient but brave enough to convince a 2,000 pound bull to get his ass out of the brush.
Vocal and adventurous, but only with the cattle.
Athletic and smart and sensitive to commands.
Quick
Fierce and loyal and friendly with a work ethic and an eager to please attitude.
Instinctual. As in: know what to do even without being told…and while we’re at it..
Bur and tick repellent
Not too much to ask right? Not too much pressure from an eager to please baby who hasn’t even seen her second winter…
But here’s the thing, a good dog is an invaluable asset around here. I joke about the expectations, but if they emerge, if they are even remotely met out here on the days when it’s just a cowboy against 100 head of cattle heading in the wrong direction, that cowboy won’t trade that dog for a mansion in the mountains.
And so we’ve been watching that pup closely, wondering how she might emerge from puppyhood. Will she be too timid? She’s a sweet little thing. Will she ever want to jump in the back of the pickup on her own? Will she come back when called? Will she be intimidated by the ornery cows? Will she come along on a ride? Will she become more than a pet?
Will she be what we hoped she would be?
Well, take a look here friends. It’s Juno.
And there she is way out there alongside of Pops and his horse, bopping and jumping and trotting through the long grass on our way to move some cows.
Take a look at how she’s grown up, that little sweetie.
Then take your coat off, take a seat and let Pops pour you a fresh cup of coffee because if you’ve stopped over you’re gonna hear it.
And it’s gonna be a while.
Because he’s proud.
Like grandkid proud.
“Can I tell you about my dog?” he’ll ask.
And before you can answer he’ll tell you how last night she would have taken that bull all the way home on her own if he would have let her.
He’ll tell you she’ll little but she got instinct.
He’ll tell you she’s sweet but she’s tough enough.
He’ll tell you how she’s so smart she comes back with one ask of one command and this morning he thinks he might have actually heard her say a word, like “hello” or “hi there” or something that sounded like a greeting, and, well, he’s not quite sure but she just might be bur repellent too…
And then he’ll tell you he’s pleased and that she just might be…could possibly be…if he doesn’t screw it all up…
The Best Cow Dog He’s Ever Had in His Whole Entire Life!!!!
Ever.
Don’t worry. I won’t tell Pudge.
Or the Pug.
Oh Juno, you’re doin’ good girl!
The roundup.
Sometimes we have to bring the cows home.
This is what that looks like…
when it takes a little longer than planned to get them there.
And this is what it looks like in the morning waiting for the rest of the crew to come and help finish the job.
Rounding up. Gathering. Sorting. Working. Punchin’ ‘
These are all words for moving cows home, although I can’t say we wear out the last very often.
I should start though. Cow Punchin’ sounds cool and retro and as you know, that’s the image I strive for.
Well, something like that, but anyway…cow punchin’ is my favorite task on the ranch. I like the idea of gathering everything up in a big black mass of bellering and creaking and munching from all across the Veeder Ranch acreage. I like to make a big swoop of the place, riding alongside the cowboys, loping up to hilltops, opening gates and following behind a nice steady stream of marching cattle on a well worn path.
I like the crisp air and the way my bay horse moves under me, watching and knowing and doing a better job of anticipating a cow’s move than I ever could.
I like the dogs and how they work as our partners in pushing the bovines forward, seeking approval and a little nip at the heels of the slow ones.
I like the way voices carry off into the hills and the conversations and curse words that come up when we’re all out in the world on the backs of horses.
I like how anything can happen and that anything always means a good portion of the herd will head for the thick brush and I will eventually have to go in there, no matter how many hats, mittens and chunks of hair have come to their final resting places among the thorns.
Or how many thorns have come to their final resting place in my legs.
This week was no exception: wool cap in the trees, tree in my hair, thorn in my leg.
Sounds about right.
Sounds just fine.
Because this is what it looks like when the cows come home in the light of day.
And no matter how many years pass, how many trucks hit their breaks on the way by or how many power lines or pipelines or oil wells cut through the once raw land. No matter the fact that some cowboys carry cell phones now and that I might hear one ringing in the trees below me, roundup always throws me back to the long held tradition of cattle ranching and care taking.
Because no matter what, horses and saddles and riders and neighbors and good dogs still work best to get the job done.
And technology can never save a rancher from the occasional necessity of standing in shit all afternoon.
No. In this line of work, some things just will not change.
Cannot change.
And so I tell you my friends, if there is anything in the world that brings me peace…
it’s the roundup.
Layers.
There’s a moment between summer and deep autumn at the ranch that’s so good at being glorious that it actually makes us all believe we could last forever under a sky that’s bright blue and crisp and warm and just the right amount of breezy all at the same time.
We’re easily swayed to forget up here, you know, about the drama that is our seasons. I imagine it’s a coping mechanism we develop that gets the crazy stoic people here through -40 degree temperature snaps.
It’s forgetting that gets us through, but it’s remembering too. The combination is an art form.
Because at -40 degrees we remember that one-day it will be sunny and 75.
And when it’s sunny, 118 degrees and 100% humidity and there’s not a lake in sight, we remember that -40 degrees and somehow find a way to be grateful for it all.
Yes we keep taking off layers and putting them on again until we make ourselves the perfect temperature.
Funny then how we’re not really good at giving the in-between moments the credit they’re due around here. We usually grab them up and soak them in just enough to get some work done on a horse, paint the house, wash the car or get the yard cleaned up for winter.
Because we’re taught up here to use those perfect weather moments to prepare us for the not so perfect ones that are coming.
That’s why fall, though a romantic season for some, gives me a little lump in my throat that tastes a lot like dread and mild panic.
Because while the pumpkins are nice and the apple cider tastes good enough, I can’t help but think that autumn is like the nice friend who slowly walks over to your lunch table with the news that your boyfriend doesn’t want to go out with you anymore.
And my boyfriend is summer. And when he’s gone, I’m stuck with the long and drawn out void that is winter–with a little splash of Christmas, a hint of a sledding party and a couple shots of schnapps to get me through the break-up.
Hear what I’m saying?
But the change is beautiful. I can’t help but marvel at it really, no matter its underlying plot to dry up the leaves and strip them from their branches and jump start my craving for carbohydrates and heavy whipping cream in everything.
So I decided to give it the credit it was due yesterday and I took a break from the office chair intent on marveling at some leaves, collecting some acorns and walking the trails the cattle and deer had cut through the trees during the heat of summer.
I will never call this moment a season, it’s too fleeting and foreboding for that, but I will reach out and touch those golden leaves and call it a sort of magic.
The kind that only nature can perform, not only on those leaves, but on the hair on a horse’s back, the fat on the calf, the trickling creek bed, the tall dry grasses, used up flowers and a woman like me.
Yes, I’m turning too. My skin is lightening. My hunger unsuppressed. My eyelids heavy when the sun sinks below the hill much earlier than my bedtime.
My pants a little tighter with the promise of colder weather.
Ok. I’ve been reminded. Summer–a month of electric thunderstorms and endless days, sunshine that heats up my skin and makes me feel young and in love with a world that can be so colorful– is over.
And so I’m thankful for the moment in these trees to be reminded that I have a little time yet, but I best be gathering those acorns.
And pulling on my layers.
Why I’m here.
We were out late last night working cattle.
And by late, I mean after dark.
And by after dark I mean, a sliver of a moon, a thousand stars, 50 head of black cattle, five people and one flashlight.
No, it’s not all raspberry picking, sunflowers and margaritas on the deck out here.
Sometimes we have to get Western.
And when all available cowboys and cowhands have jobs and responsibilities in the sweet and useful hours of the day, sometimes we find ourselves chasing the sun while we’re chasing the cows.
It’s difficult. Since moving back to the ranch two summers ago I’ve learned a lot of things. I’ve learned how to can a tomato, tile a shower, where to find a missing pug, how make a meal from what I have in my pantry because I’ve got no choice, I’m not driving to town, how to kill a burdock plant, what time of day makes the most magical photos and how long I can go without taking a shower before the neighbors start to complain…
But above all of that, mostly I’ve learned there aren’t enough hours in the day.
And I don’t know how Pops has done it all these years.
Ranching is a full time job. It’s not just about watching them graze in the pasture and riding through them like the Man from Snowy River every once in a while to get your cowboy fix. You have to feed them, move them, watch the water, watch for illness, doctor, move them again, find them when they’re out, fix the fence, move them, fix the fence, patch up corrals, bring them home, let the bulls out, get the bulls in, roundup, doctor, wean the babies, fix the fence, get a plan for hay, move the hay, feed the hay, break the ice on the stock dam and check them every day.
My dad has always had two full time jobs, one of them being ranching. His goal was to keep this place in the family and, during that time, that was the only choice. He would come home from work in the winter and I would bundle up in my Carharts and we would roll a bale out for the cattle in the freezing cold, nearly dark landscape. Sometimes I would drive the pickup while he scooped out cake or grain for a line of cattle trailing behind in the falling snow.
In the spring we would drive out and watch for calves being born. I would sit in the pickup as he braved the wrath of momma while he tagged and checked the baby.
There was more than one time that momma won the battle.
Summers were spent riding horses and moving pastures.
Fall was roundup and time spent in the pickup on the way to the sale barn.
And then he’d do it over again.
Every memory of being a side-kick ranch kid was one I hold close to me as part of my makeup, no matter the fact that I likely wasn’t one bit of help, except maybe that driving part.
And I like to think I’m good company.
I’ve been bucked off, had my fingers smashed, broken bones and cried out of frustration when facing a seemingly impossible task.
Ranching is not a job for the weak, and often I wondered (and I still wonder) if I’m made up of the things my father is made up of.
Why all of those years of long hours in town and late nights? Why not a house in town with a lawn, beer with the guys on Friday nights, golf on Saturday?
I never asked him because it’s a stupid question.
I’ve never asked him because I know the answer.
I’ll tell you here, but I have to do it quickly, because in an hour, we have to be home from town and saddled up. We have to bring more cows home and it’s gets dark earlier every night.
So here’s what he’d say:
This is it for me. Give me the beaches of the Caribbean, the steep mountains of Montana, give me perfect city streets laid out and predictable, give me the cactus and mysterious heat of the dessert, give me the shores of the mighty Missouri, the fjords of my grandparents’ homeland and I will say they are good.
I will tell you they’re beautiful.
I have seen them and I believe that’s true.
But I would not trade one day out in these pastures for a lifetime on those beaches, even if it means broken tractors and working until midnight with no light but the stars.
And I don’t know what else to say about it except this is my home and I will do what it takes to make sure that it stays the truth.
And that’s why I’m here.
As simple as a plum.
Western North Dakota grows wild plums. In the patches of brush where the poison ivy sneaks and the cows go to get away from the flies, they start as blossoms on the thorny branches and, under the hot sun, turn from green in early July to red to a dark purple bite-sized berry just waiting to be picked in the beginning of autumn.
Wild plums mean summer is almost over. They mean roundup is on its way. They mean sucking on pits and spitting them at your little sister. They mean scratches from branches on a detour for a snack on the way to get the bull out of the trees.
They mean Pops’ stories of grampa sitting at the table in the winter dipping into a jar of canned wild plums , drenching them in cream and stacking the pits neatly on the table.
They mean memories of grandma’s jelly on peanut butter toast.
They mean reassurance that sweet things can grow in brutal places.
They mean a passing surprize on our way through a pasture and coming back later with the farm pickup to fill up a bucket, me squished in the middle seat between my husband and my dad, the Twins playing on the radio as we bump along on prairie trails that haven’t been under a tire in months looking for that magical patch of fruit, wondering out loud if we could of dreamed it.
Laughing at the thought.
Wild plums mean listening to the two men banter as they pick and reach and gather like little boys, making plans for the best way to fill our bucket.
“Shake the tree, we can get the ones on top.”
“Keep ’em out of the cow poop…poop plums are no good.”
“Are you eating them Jess. Hey, no eating!”
“I’ve never seen a patch like this. Jessie, you can make so much jelly!”
Yes. I could. With the 6 gallons of plums we picked last night standing in the bed of the pickup, ducked down in the clearing where the cows lay, scaling along the edges of the trees, I could make jars of jelly, pies, pastries and syrups to last until next plum picking season.
But even if I didn’t. Even if we did nothing more than feed those wild plums to the birds, it wouldn’t matter. The magic of wild and pure things is in their discovery and the sweet reminder that happiness can be as simple as a wild plum patch.
What you get when I’m stuck in the house…
Happy Friday to you. I hope you get off work early and have plans to sip cold drink on a summery deck somewhere.
I’m spending mine under a blanket on my cozy couch dosed up on pain pills after partaking in a little surgery (nothing major…and no, not a nose job) yesterday.
Yes, full disclosure, I’m on drugs.
Word is I’ll be feeling better tomorrow. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway as I’ve been enduring daytime television programming and small attempts at sounding coherent on work calls I decided to return since I am home and not supposed to go anywhere.
And now for your lesson of the day: you shouldn’t return work calls when you’re on hyrdocodone.
You probably shouldn’t respond to emails either. Or write a blog.
But I could be worse. I could be Little Sister. She got her wisdom teeth removed on Wednesday.
She looks like a chipmunk and can’t eat Doritos.
So there’s that.
At least I can eat Doritos. If we had Doritos.
I could really go for some Doritos…
Yup, we’re a pathetic lot out here at the ranch. But while we’ve been resting Husband and Little Sister’s man have been working on putting up the deck in time for my birthday party because, besides world peace, my one birthday wish is that I will be able to celebrate 30 by toasting to old age with tequila on the beautiful deck attached to our house.
And my husband, bless his handyman soul, is doing what he can.
I’ll keep you posted.
But for now, in honor of Friday, mandatory couch time and my drug induced loss for words, I would like to give you a little update on what’s been going on around the old homestead these days.
To sum it up, it’s August and it’s been raining, which is not common for this month. Our ranch missed the recent devastating hail storm that rolled in across the country side, wiping out large wheat fields and leaving farmers to shake their heads at the loss. We are shaking ours at the thought.
The cows have been finding a new hole in the fence to crawl through every day because the grass is apparently greener.
The horses are sleek and are spending the warm days swishing their tails, nodding their heads and running from the flies,
the chokecherries are ripe, the plums will soon follow,
the clover is tall, the late summer wildflowers are in bloom,
the oil is still pumping,
The badlands are at their best,
LIttle Man keeps growing up,
the dogs have decided it’s their duty to protect us from the squirrels in the trees, so that’s why they never stop barking if you’re wondering…
The dragonflies are back for their fill of mosquitos. So are the bats. And we don’t mind at all.
The thunderheads roll in at night,
and the sunsets are spectacular.
There’s even been some rainbow sightings.
And we’re pretty happy around here, even when we’re not on the painkillers…
So you should come for a visit. You can stay in the cabin. That came this month too.
And God willing, in a week I’ll have a deck and I’ll pour you a cold one and we can cheers to good friends and good weather and good health.
But for a little while, I’ll be here, under this blanket, eating Doritos and watching that deck go up from the cool side of the window…
Peace, Love and pain medication,
Jessie
A princess in the garden.
Pops has always kept a garden. He grows things like peas and carrots, radishes and green beans, onions, cucumbers, tomatoes and plenty of weeds. Once or twice he grew corn just tall and delicious enough for the horses to find their way from green pastures into the yard for the free buffet.
We no longer plant corn.
I love Pops’ garden. I love it as much as the deer love his peas and the moles love his radishes. I love to watch it sprouting from my parents’ deck. I like to watch their cat hunt for mice and big bugs out there. I love breaking off rhubarb stocks, digging around for the first sign of a ripe carrot and the taste of the first fresh garden tomato on a BLT.
A few weeks ago Pops’ garden had a new tiny visitor, a little girl named Addy who flew in all the way from Texas to explore the ranch where her grandpa grew up.
Addy climbed hills and picked flowers,
looked out for Little Man,
chased the cat, bossed the dogs,
got a woodtick or two, and probably a few mosquito bites too.
I followed the little darling around because I didn’t want to miss a word that came out of her adorable little mouth.
“Jessie, can I borrow your ring for when my prince comes?” she asked as she made her way out of my bedroom with one of my big bling rings wobbling on her tiny pointer finger.
“Well of course you can Addy. You can have anything you want. Want my wedding ring too? Take it. Want all of my necklaces and my horse and my car and the pug? You might need those too, you know, so you’re prepared when your prince comes.”
I would have given that girl anything she wanted, but Addy didn’t want everything, she just wanted to play. So we did. I showed her around the place, showed her where the tiger lilies grew and where the dogs go for a swim. Addy wanted to swim too, so I found someone to tell her it might not be a good idea.
There was not a chance I was uttering the word “no” to this girl.
So instead I took her to the garden to teach her about growing things and how you’re supposed to step over the pea plants and not necessarily on them.
I watched as she put her hands on her knees and squatted down to get close to the leaves of the strawberry plant, where she declared and made known to the world every bug that crawled on its leaves.
I gave her a taste of rhubarb and watched her cute little face pucker up while she threw the stalk down, declaring it sour before asking for another one.
I followed her following the cat who was hot on the trail of a mouse.
I tried to convince her that pulling weeds might be fun.
She convinced me it was time to go inside.
But before dinner was on the table we were back out there again because Addy said, “Jessie come out here, I think that it’s growing! The garden is growing!”
And so she was right. It was growing. Growing by the minute like this little girl’s wonder and knowledge of the world. So I told her that it might grow faster if we watered it a bit. She grabbed the end of the hose and I headed for the spigot.
“Ready. Set. Go!” Addy yelled in my direction as I pulled the lever up and the water made its way through the hose and to the little girl’s hands squeezing the nozzle.
Addy was watering the garden.
It’s what good princesses do. They tend to the growing things and make the world a little bit greener, the sky a little bit bluer, the birds a little bit chirpier and grown women cry at the utter cuteness of it all…
It turns out, little garden princesses make rainbows too.
At least that what princess Addy did. She made a rainbow with the sun and the water.
“Look Jessie, I’m watering the rainbow!”
“No Addy, you made it! Look at that, you made a rainbow!”
And then I cried a little bit under the protection of my sunglasses so my family observing from the deck could not see that she was melting my heart into a puddle in my chest.
Turns out that making rainbows make princesses thirsty and so Addy needed a drink…
And I cried some more.
Yes, Pops has always kept a garden, but if he never plants another one, it won’t matter. All of the failed attempts at squash, overgrown asparagus and horse-chewed corn on the cob was worth it.
Because it turns out gardens are not made for horses or rabbits or moles or regular people who like home grown tomatoes. No. Gardens are made for princesses, and finally, one came to visit ours!
It’s summer now…
It’s summer now and the days are long, the sun moving slowly across the sky and hanging at the edge of the earth for stretched out moments, giving us a chance to put our hands on our hips and say “what a perfect night.”
It’s summer now and before dark officially falls we ride to the hill tops and then down through the cool draws where the shade and the grass and the creek bed always keep a cool spot for us.
Because it’s summer now and things are warming up. The leaves are out and so are the wildflowers, stretching and blooming and taking in the fleeting weather.
It’s summer now and the cows are home…
and so is Husband, home before the sun sets. Home to get on a horse and find Pops and ride fence lines.
It’s summer now and the dogs’ tongues hang out while they make their way to the spot of shade on the gravel where the truck is parked. They are panting. They are smiling. They just got in from a swim.
Because it’s summer now and the water where the slick-backed horses drink, twitching and swiping their tails at flies, is warm and rippling behind the oars of the water bugs, the paddle of duck’s feet, the leap of a frog and the dunk of a beaver’s escape.
It’s summer now and we keep the windows open so even when we’re inside we’re not really inside.
We can’t be inside.
Because it’s summer now and there’s work to be done. We say this as we stand leaning up against a fence post, thinking maybe if we finish the chores we could squeeze in time for fishing.
Because it’s summer and we heard they’re biting.
Yes, it’s summer and we should mow the grass before the clouds bring the thunderstorm that will wake us in the early morning hours of the next day. And it’s summer so we will lay there with the windows open listening to it roll and crack, feeling how the electricity makes our hearts thump and the air damp on our skin. Maybe we will sleep again, maybe we’ll rise to stand by the window and watch the lightening strike and wonder where this beautiful and mysterious season comes from.
And why, like the storm, it’s always just passing through.
Little Man, right before our eyes…
This is what Little Man does when he comes out to the ranch.
Little Man is my nephew, for those of you who just got on board here at Meanwhile. He’s my little big sister’s first and only son, our first and only nephew and the first and only grandkid, so, well, you know, his life’s rough.
This is what he used to look like before he grew up into a little boy who thinks he’s big enough to drive 4-wheelers.
Right before our very eyes! How did that happen?
Anyway, see that there? That’s him looking for the key to start up the machine. He knows we hid it from him.
We hid it from him because we knew if found it he would surely drive off over the hill with the puppy on his tail, flying fast, shifting gears, ramping rocks and cliffs and screaming through creeks and puddles.
He’s got an adventurous and mechanical mind.
He’s got overachieving coordination, just the kind you need to manage things like computers and iPads and lawnmowers and 4-wheelers.
He’s got an obsession.
I swear, he could sit on this thing for hours, and that says something, you know, for a two year old with an attention span of, well, a two year old.
That damn 4-wheeler, it’s one of a thousand tools Papa has to win his spot as Little Man’s favorite. It also helps that he has horses, a garden full of dirt, a really loud and funny monster impression, patience and a general willingness to allow Little Man to do whatever he wants.
Good thing Gram has fruit snacks or she wouldn’t stand a chance.
I know how she feels. I mean, Papa and Little Man are downright inseparable. When they’re together not one other thing exists in the whole entire world.
Except maybe the movie Despicable Me. Little Man loves Despicable Me, so I guess Gramma has that going for her too. It’s possible Papa could be ignored if she were to turn on Despicable Me.
But say the words “4-wheeler” or “horses” and all bets are off.
And that’s that.
So you see, if I don’t steal Little Man away from Papa when he comes out to the ranch, if I don’t bribe him with pug kisses and string cheese we wouldn’t get to bond over reading books, throwing the stick for the lab and playing “Hook” with the kitchen utensils.
Playing “Hook” means playing “Captain Hook” and that means playing swords.
Turns out my hamburger masher is a perfect sword.
So is my ladle.
I love Little Man. He’s such a cute little weirdo.
Now, if only Papa would go on vacation and his mom would let me keep him, I’d have everything I ever need 🙂
Just a short vacation Pops, you know, take that 4-wheeler and go fishing or something…
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 
