Tag Archives: ranch life

Accident Prone (Prize Alert!)

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31

In honor of Friday the 13th I would like to take a moment to embrace a side of me that I have not appropriately opened up about. And I am ashamed of this, because anyone who knows me personally will know that this part of me is worth mentioning, if for no other reason than to protect the innocent souls around me.

Deep breath in….now let it out….sigh…

Some days life is tough for me.

Yes.

And by tough, I mean literally painful.

Because I am a klutz.

Accident prone.

A magnet for small disasters.

A target for falling things.

like bird poop...

This is a quality that is so much a part of me I have began to embrace it and use it when asked to describe myself:

“Who am I? Well I am so glad you asked: I am a wild haired, overly friendly over sharer spaz of a woman who is inclined to burst out in song when simply regular talking would do just fine. I often have big ideas that require more muscles than I currently posses attached to arms and legs that are more often that not, flailing. I lack the attention to detail needed to glide through this ranch-world unscathed by stomping horse hooves, alarmingly uneven ground, muddy creek beds, giant bulls and rodents with wings that prefer to fly right for my head when there are a million miles of open sky available to them. Oh, and chips and salsa are still my favorite food groups even though the food group almost choked me to death in a public space known as a restaurant, just to make sure I was good and embarrassed (Sweet Martha thank goodness for Mr. Heimlic and his maneuver). Oh, and I got my big nose from my dad…and a flying sled and an unruly beer bottle in case you were wondering….thanks so much for asking, I think l’ll go inside now.”

I mean, let’s get real here. How many women have been smacked in the head by a 15 foot 2×6 board that came screaming at 30 mph out of what appeared to be thin air one day…only to fall through the floor of a barn the next?

Danger, lurking around every corner

How many people have actually bent over to pick up a napkin off of the floor only to smoke their head so hard on a kitchen table (a table that has been in the same place for 15 + years so there should be no surprises) that guests fell silent and actually witnessed those little cartoon bluebirds circling around her head?

Do you know any proper lady who has dolled up, put on her big girl shoes and attempted a few hours in a dress only to step out of the dining booth and fall directly on her face, flashing her entire rear-end to a bar full of strange men?

How many best friends have to regularly say “Really? Did that just happen? Are you ok?”

How many times can a dad rush his young daughter to the emergency room for a crushed foot from jumping the wrong way off of a horse, a snapped ligament for landing the wrong way while jumping, er, falling off a small cliff, a smashed finger from getting her limb stuck between a 2,000 pound bull and a metal post, or a disjointed wrist from a unfortunate decision to heroically save herself from a runaway horse?

Note to self...bridal necessary.

How many times can a husband shake his head at his wife before his head actually falls off and he turns from bystander to victim?

How many people do you know who have actually hit themselves in the head with a hammer, measure the time they have spent in casts in years and were nicknamed “Tuck and Roll” in seventh grade by those who are supposed to love them most?

How many?

Well, I know one who happens to share my name and the same bruise on my left knee and permanent and distinct bump on my nose.

"Hhiiiyaaa gguuyyyssaaa!!"

Um, I just need one moment here….

“Bwwwaaaaa ahhh  ahhhh…sob…sniff…sniff…whimper…”

Sigh.

Ok, enough of this confession. Life is tough out here for animals and humans like me. Come to think of it I have a couple dozen stories I could tell you about witnessing my pops in similar life-threatening situations (i.e.: welding his polyester shirt to to his arm, getting clotheslined by a barbed wire fence and one or two cow trampling incidents) so perhaps his giant nose and frizzy hair weren’t the only qualities he passed down to me.

Thanks a million pops.

"Why you're welcome dear daughter..."

But I decided a long time ago that I can’t live in fear about the next mishap, bruise, concussion, bloody nose or knee. Life’s too short and there’s too much to do…

So I took the pug’s lead and invested in some safety glasses:

Because we can’t afford to lose another eye on this place.

And in honor of this cryptic type holiday, the one straight out of those horror movies I refuse to subject myself to for fear of bed wetting, I want to hear from you.

Tell me about an embarrassing blunder or injury. Give me your best accident prone tale and the one that makes me feel better about myself and the fact that I am gracefully challenged can chose from the following 8×10 matted metallic prints to be sent to your door.

Photo #1:

Photo #2

Photo #3

Because I like to celebrate our shortcomings 🙂

Oh, and don’t forget to visit the “Meanwhile, back at the ranch…” Facebook page and hit “like” for more ranch updates, contests and photos.

Love you and happy accidents everyone!

How do the crocuses know?

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22

It’s official.

Deep breath in and out.

Whew.

After a winter that dug its frozen fingers in, ate us out of house and home, turned our skin pasty and soft and all in all outstayed his welcome, peaking up from the once frozen ground is the first genuine promise of warmer days to come.

And when I say genuine I mean it, because this little signal that comes to us quietly on the hilltops has never failed to lift the dreary spirits of country people in the northern states.

Yes, the crocuses are here.

And if there was anything I needed to do upon returning to the ranch yesterday evening after a lovely day with family sitting out in the 60 degree sunshine–if there were chores or phone calls or words that needed to be said to you about Easter and family and the sweet memories this holiday stirs inside of me, all of that was trumped by husband’s and my deep desire to fling open the doors of the car, pull off our town clothes, change into our muck boots and climb the hills to find springtime treasures.

For anyone who grew up in a northern state or in the countryside where your world turns white for months you will understand this. You will understand what the crocus means to us here in rural North Dakota.

You will understand the sweet smell of dirt that accompanies the search and anticipation of spotting that first vivid purple petal emerging from the cold, damp, brown earth. And if you have patiently watched the snow drifts disappear and reappear outside your front porch as the months drag on, you will not laugh when I say at that moment you feel as though you have never seen a purple that deep, a petal as soft, a color so vibrant. Beauty has arrived.

And if you are from the prairie you will smile as you think of that first breeze catching your hair and the sunshine warming your shoulders as you fling off your spring jacket,  let the warm soak in your skin and fall down to your knees to inspect the new arrival.

You will understand how, at that moment, you are eight years old again and you have your grandmother’s hand and you can hear her voice through the breeze. You can hear her exclaim “Oh, now look at that…” as your eyes move from the first flower and across the hill to notice that there are purple dots are everywhere. Scattered.

And if your world has been white and you have been restless you will appreciate the challenge you face just then where your enthusiasm for the change of season begs you to grab the flowers up, collect them for your pockets, pluck them for your basket or your bucket and bring them home to proudly display on windowsills and kitchen tables and countertops.

But instead you pause as your fingers run over the fuzz of the fragile flowers that reach for the sky in groups, holding hands with a promise to face this uncertain sky together.

Yes, if you are from the windswept buttes, the wheat fields, the quiet streams that cut through small cow pastures you will nod your head when I tell you that yesterday, when I finally found what I was after, I made sure I only picked one crocus from each group, careful to not leave any alone out there, certain not to pluck the hilltop clean of this precious flower that enters this world so confident, the first bud of prairie spring…

because life is short and a little piece of me felt like, for all this flower has given me, there should be some left out there to live it.

Yes, if you are from the once frozen Dakotas, you will nod your head because you have done the same thing and returned to your home with a modest bundle of furry purple flowers, shaking off the tiny bugs that have made their home inside the petals before setting the bouquet on your table with pride.

This is the ritual, these are the emotions conveyed by such a small and simple gift from nature. And we repeat this ceremony year after year, our excitement builds, our childhood reinvented, our hope for a new season renewed.

We anticipate, we make time, we know it’s coming every year…

But how do the crocuses know?

How do they know the ground is ready and the sky won’t forsake them?

How do they know that momma’s desperately need flowers just as much as papas desperately need to pick them for her?

How do they know when children need a treasure hunt and grammas need to lead the way?

How do they know just when to make a quiet and brilliant entrance to come and finish thawing us out?

How do they know just exactly when we need them?

The 105 pound heart

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If you were the lab with your sleek coat and paws that make tracks like a wolf in the mud, your tail would clear a coffee-table with one sweep while running to the door to enthusiastically welcome the neighbors with an accidentally and completely oblivious swat to the groin.

And you would be confused as to why you didn’t fit on the couch, or on a lap, or in the arms of your favorite human, but nothing could keep you from trying.

Because if you were the lab your self perception would be slightly off. In your mind you would be fluff, weightless and wishing to fit in the palm of a hand, or in a pocket, or on the soft cushion of a chair all the while working to squeeze your body between the small spaces of this house, taking up the limited carpeting available for walking.

But if you were the lab you would be polite and move out of the way when prompted, not recognizing that perhaps you are indeed fluff after all…and the rest of the 105 pounds is taken up by your heart.

Because if you were the lab your heart would have to be big enough to fit in the one-eyed pug who came into your life as a little black, squishy blob with two eyes that couldn’t climb the stairs and quickly took over the house and the walks and the yard and the lap that used to belong only to you.

And your sticks. He would always be taking your sticks…

while biting at your back legs.

And yes, if you were the lab your 105 pound heart would give a nice growl, but never a snap, after the 330th time the cat bit your tail and you would attempt to protect the barnyard with enthusiastic barking, only to follow it up with head rubs and giant licks and tail wags and all of the things dogs that love their world do when approached by good humans.


And you would chase deer and pheasants and cows when told a million times to back off to go home, but you would avoid porcupines at all costs, forever remembering the single quill you once had barely dangling from your snout from the first and last encounter with the prickly demons. 

And in the depths of your slumber when you’re drooling from your floppy lips and your droopy eyes are closed up tight for the night, you would have nightmares about this, squealing and whining and moving your legs as you lay on your side.

If you were the lab you would drag out garbage, and bring home dead things and roll in poop and bark up trees and almost spontaneously combust at the site of your person putting on tennis shoes or boots or grabbing a gun or hitching up the boat for a trip to the lake.

You would be four years old with a gray beard and the softest ears and joints that seemed to ache when your old soul arose and you would howl at my harmonica with the same vigor you use to howl back at the coyotes at night…

and during the course of a day your 105 pound heart would fill up, combust and be broken 175 times.

Yes, if you were the lab all of that love and life and adventure you made room for in the 105 pound heart of yours—the pug, the tolerance and acceptance of the cats, the cow poop, the neighbors, the sticks and the fear of the sting of the porcupine would be incomparable, thrown to the wind, forgotten and completely and utterly abandoned at the first site of water….

…water, the only place you, the lab, is truly weightless…

…105 pound heart and all.


The thaw-out ritual

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18

It was great day to be alive at the ranch. The sun was shining on the buttes, melting away the snow and revealing the ground, the sweet, muddy, brown ground that is certain to burst with green in the coming months.

Nobody could wait. Not the birds…

not the deer…

not the antelope…

not the snarky coyote…

not the pets…

(Don't worry, I've moved the bird feeder...)

not the people…

Not the pops.

Enough with the cold already.

This is spring fever. And the person who suffers from it more than anything else in the world, man or beast, is my pops.

As soon as the sun hits that ice and snow, warming it up enough to see some water run, to see some ground exposed, he’s out of the house like a caged bird who hasn’t been released since his capture. He doesn’t know what to do with himself he’s so giddy. He gets that list in his head going…all the things that need to be fixed, all the fences to check, all the animals to scope out, all the tinkering to do. He gets that list going and milling around right and good and then lets it all fly out his ears as he climbs to the top of the nearest hill and plops himself down in the warmest, driest spot he can find and just lets the sun shine down on him.

That’s his thaw-out ritual. I have witnessed it year after year, spring after spring. And I have adopted it.

Because it’s a good idea.

Ok, so here’s the other thing about my pops. When it thaws, he forgets.

He forgets that one warm day does not the summer make. He forgets that the 6 feet of snow in the coulees does not melt in a mere two hours of warm sunshine. He forgets that the frolicking about will remain challenging in the slush and slop and ice…at least for a good month or so.

He frolics anyway, despite the cost and the muddy, wet clothes that result. And last week I was reminded of this as I pulled into the yard on the first sunny, blue sky, warm melty day we’ve had in months. There he stood, my pops, in his cap and overalls and muck boots, hammering on the tractor, shuffling around the shop. I parked my car in the driveway and quickly changed into my ranch clothes and walked out to see what he was up to.

Pops emerged from the dark of the garage, hand shielding his eyes from the sunshine.

“Hey. Whatcha doing?”

“Oh, had to get out here. It’s such a nice day. Isn’t it gorgeous. Feels like 60 degrees…water’s really running. Got that part I needed for the tractor, but it looks like I need another one…won’t get that fixed today. Oh well…want to come with me to check the horses?”

“Sure. We walkin?”

“No, we’ll take the 4-wheeler.”

“Really? You think it will make it?”

“Oh, I think I can maneuver it around the hills…we can make it…it’s a beautiful day. Beautiful. We’ll bring them some grain. Hop on.”

Here is where I will explain that I have been known to do exactly what my father says, without question, since the beginning of time. Obedience. I had it. And even though I have a few vague memories of the pops’ great ideas turning into arms and leg flailing, bone crushing, all out wrecks complete with run-away horses, polyester shirts welded to arms, a barbed wire fence to the forehead and one finger smashed by a 2,000 pound bull in the past, it turns out those fuzzy recollections have no power over my two relentless qualities: obedience and loyalty.

I hopped on.

And wondered how this was going to go, remembering my recent trip to the horses in my snowshoes where I sunk into 10 foot drifts and drug my ass home with blood gushing out my nose from the cold and trauma of the exertion. Now I realize the temperature was unbearably cold then and the snow was fluffier and much easier to fall through, but it hadn’t melted that much had it?

Ah, it didn’t matter anyway because Pops was determined. He was not worried. He took his 4-wheeler and me and my doubts along the gravely mucky road and then turned, nice and easy off the path and up the melty drift that has been growing and growing all winter long at the entrance of the farmstead.

I closed my eyes tight, waiting to feel the pull of gravity that was sure to send us plummeting through the 12 feet of snow and rocks and slushy water toward the earth that I was sure still existed under all of that stuff.

Then I opened them, because that didn’t happen. Nope. Not at all. With pops at the helm whistling a familiar tune, we put-putted our way right on over the drift like we made this daring trip every day and headed for dry ground. We continued this way, dodging the white patches of snow, taking the long way around hills and trees to keep the machine on snow-free ground.

The warm air whipped through the hairs that had escaped from my beanie. My pale cheeks soaked up the sunshine. My lungs shouted “woo hoo” as they remembered what fresh air above 35 degrees felt like.

I released my white knuckled death grip as we approached the gate to the horse pasture.

Ah it was springtime and the living was easy and as pops got off his machine to get the gate I thought of all of things I was going to do under this big sky with its ball of warm heat shining down on me….

plant a garden…lounge with a vodka tonic…clean up all of the things that have magically appeared as the snow disappeared (who put that kayak there?)…wear shorts…avoid washing my windows…

Pops hopped back on and as we continued on our little journey…

…where were we? Oh, yes……avoid the laundry…run through the sprinker…wash the dogs (I think I can smell them from here)…fill up the kiddie pool and attach it to my slip ‘n slide…speaking of slip ‘n slide, remember to NOT fling my body down a clay butte, no matter how much the mud beckons…grill…drink margaritas….find my floaties and head to the lake…eat pineapple..

“Jessie….

Jess..

Jessica!!!”

“Wha…what?”

“You need to get off.”

“Wha…why?”

“We’re stuck.”

And just like that, the green and blue landscape that existed in my head was replaced by reality’s sharp kick in the pants.

A good mile from the house and  good half mile to our destination there we sat  in the great white north with a 600 pound 4-wheeler buried to its gullets in the heavy, wet, limitless, not so spring-like snow.

Without a shovel.

Now here is where I tell you that I wasn’t surprised despite my momentary, it’s-spring-time-things-are-going-good, distraction. See, this isn’t the first time pops has had this thing stuck. Like really stuck.

See, growing up we didn’t own a 4-wheeler. We had horses. Those were our 4-wheelers. At least that’s what I was told.

But pops splurged in the last few years when his kids (who maybe would have liked a 4-wheeler a little too much)  left home.

Ah, sweet freedom.

Freedom to splurge on the only convenience the man has ever had on the place. Really. So you can’t blame him for testing its limits by taking the beast where no machine was meant to go: t0 the tops of buttes, over giant boulders, through fences, up trees and across muddy, ravenous, woody crick beds.

I know ’cause I have had to pull, cut, dig and help lift him out.

But this particular day, as I squinted my eyes against the sunshine reflecting off of the glaring white snow that was holding promise of disappearing, I looked at pops and laughed. And he shrugged. We kicked the tires. We pushed a little. We dug a little. We commented about the shovel.

And then we grabbed the bucket of grain and abandoned our ride to continue the task at hand.

It was a beautiful day and there was no time to waste for minor inconveniences like walking…

And the horses were feeling the same way and they came running.

And kicking…

And bucking…

And jumping…

And laughing, I think, just a little, at our pathetic attempt to hurry spring along.

The mule, looking just as sexy (and blind) as ever.

No, you just can’t rush things like this.

You can, however, bring some grain

And a shovel, just in case you might have pushed it…

Ah well…

Happy spring!

To the kids

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19

It’s 11 pm on Tuesday and tomorrow I am traveling 65 miles to teach a class at an event for youth called  Marketplace for Kids held in a neighboring college town.

Marketplace for Kids is something I may or may not have attended in my youth as an ambitious 8 or 9 or 10 year old– an educational program offered to students from around the state to help encourage young entrepreneurs and give them a chance to present and explain their projects–which are no doubt brilliant and creative and inspiring.

I will be a part of their opening ceremony. I will be singing a song. I will be teaching five, twenty-five minute classes about how I got from ranch kid, to singer/songwriter, to college student, to career woman and, then back to the ranch–this time as a grown woman.

I will be up all night.

Yes, I have known about this gig since January, but three months later and nine hours until the event itself, I still have no idea why they want me there. I spent all day today going over my class notes, trying to find the best way to explain myself.  Trying to figure out how to communicate my goals and ambitions and minor successes to a room full of 7 or 8 0r 9 or 10 year olds.

Trying to figure out really, how I got here.

I don’t know if I’m the right woman for the job…I just don’t know if I have what it takes. The thing that gives me hope is my one redeeming quality: I can still remember, vaguely, what it was like to be their age–so full of creativity and life and love for the things around me.

I can still remember, vaguely…

And you know, since I have been doing all this thinking, here’s what I think–I think that’s what has saved me and got me here today, doing something I love in a place I love the most in the world.

So now it’s 11:10 pm and having been at this quest, this journey about what to say to a crowd of children who are no doubt smarter than I am, unofficially since I was asked to do the gig in January and officially since 8 am this morning. And I think I might have finally got it.

I’m still nervous. But I think I got it. Or something that resembles it.

I guess I’ll find out tomorrow…

To the kids

Hello! I was so excited to talk to you all today. I’ve been thinking about what to say to you for months. I worry about things like this.  It’s such a fun opportunity to talk to you about what I’ve learned in my 27 short years….I didn’t want to mess it up!

I wanted to tell you a little about myself, about how I have been playing guitar and writing poetry and music about the ranch I grew up on since I was 12 years old and how I recorded a couple CDs and how I traveled the country for years singing songs, like the one I just sang for you today.


I wanted to tell you about how, after all of the miles I traveled and all of the songs I sang along the way, I have moved back to the ranch and am now working on opening it up to guests so they can come and visit, take photos, hike and bike and ride horses and learn about ranching and cattle.

I wanted to tell you all about how I got to where I am and how, with enough drive and ambition, you can grow up to be anything you want to be…


But the thing is, as I look out at you I remember myself at your age. And I remember that you already know that. Someone has already told you this a time or two haven’t they?

Because when I was your age I knew it. I knew what I loved—horses and music and wildflowers and lizards and my friends and family and pet dogs—I knew I loved all of the space around me and the adventure and freedom of growing up and living in the country.  I knew who I was.

Jessie Veeder. Brown Hair. Brown Eyes. Tomboy. Nature Lover. Animal Lover. Singer. Cowgirl.


And I look at you out here and I see blond hair and black hair and boys and girls, big sisters, little brothers, inventors and authors and movie stars and firefighters and business owners. You all have your interests and your hobbies and your talents. They are being developed right in front of my eyes. I can see it happening as I speak.

So instead of telling you that you can be anything you want to be, what I really want to tell you is to just, please…

Be You.


Do the things you love. Explore and make friends and travel and learn about what makes you happy and what you do best. And go out and do it. Every day.

And as you grow up you will find it will be hard sometimes, and sometimes you will be pulled in unexpected directions, sometimes you will be lonely and sometimes you will fail…


But when that happens, remember yourself here, at 7 or 10 or 13 years old. It will be easy to do if you stay true to yourself, the one who is sitting in these chairs with all of your plans and talents and goals and spirit.…

Remember you.

Be You. The very best version.

And I promise you will succeed.

Well, it should go something like this, depending on my level of panic or the fact that I realize when I get to the event that this isn’t what they had in mind when they called me at all.

I’ll let you know how it goes…and if they Slushie me Glee Style.

The mis-adventures of a (potentially) one-eyed pug

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31

Uff, it’s been a rough week out here at the ranch, for man and the little beast.

And by little beast I am referring, of course, to the pug.

Here we go again…

Let me just start here with the mild heart attack that helped kick off my Sunday morning curling hangover at the beginning of this long week. As I was at the in-laws drowning my sorrows induced by too many Bud Lights the night before and deciding that I am getting too old to stay out until 2 am (and also deciding that there is not enough coffee in the world),  in my attempt to declare it a “Good Morning” anyway (I try to keep it together for the family), I discovered my body had retaliated against my irresponsible behavior by taking away the one thing that gives me control over my world–my voice.

I felt like the Little Mermaid, but without the gift of great legs and a charming prince.

Because my prince was looking a little haggard as he wished that God had never invented whiskey and reached for his third cup of coffee.

coffee

And then the phone rang and his momma answered it…

“Well, hi….yes, yes…it was a fun night…a little wild, but fun. Yes, the music was alright…I think the kids had fun…hmmm…ok….yes….”

I listened to the conversation from under my hoodie and fluffy blanket, deducing from the tone of voice and conversation topics that it was my momma on the other end of the line, fully expecting the receiver to be handed over to me when their chat was finished and trying to figure out how to have a phone conversation with no voice….

…and then mother-in-law turned to my dearly beloved on the other end of the blanket and said:

“It’s the Veeder’s. They want to talk to you.”

They wanted to talk to husband?!

Suspicious.

While you were out...

This just became serious. My momma didn’t want to talk to me to see how the curling went, to have me pick up milk or dog food or bananas on the way home? She didn’t want to wish me a happy Sunday?! No. She wanted husband. And I pretty much ruled out the one positive outcome of a phone conversation between the two of them–a super secret surprise for yours truly– when I saw husband wrinkle his nose and say the following: “Hmm…that doesn’t sound good.”

Oh sweet Martha Stewart something was up. Was it pops? Was it a neighbor? Was it my sister, a car accident, a raging flood, a house fire, an avalanche…crop circles or those aliens I’ve been waiting for? Why doesn’t anyone ever talk to me? Why do they keep me out of the loop? Don’t they think I can handle it? Bring it on. I can take it. Just tell me. TTTEELLLL MMEEEEAAA!

Wwwhhhhatttt isss iiitttt?

I gripped my coffee close to my chest and hunched over, blanket draped across my shoulders like a nursing home patient and stared husband dead in the eye as he hung up the phone.

In a pathetic yell type whisper I squeaked frantically:

“What? What? Who is it? Why did she want to talk to you? Who is missing a limb? When’s the funeral? We need to get home…”

He shook his head, rolled his eyes and declared the following:

“It’s Chug…”

I knew it.

I gasped and forced words from my scratchy wind-pipe:

“He’s dead isn’t he? Hit by a truck. Eaten by a coyote. Ravaged by a rare pack of angry bears. Abducted by aliens….”

Husband sighed and rolled his eyes again.

“No…not aliens this time. But he did find a porcupine again. And he has a quill..

In.

His.

Eye.

Ball.”

Oh mercy.

Say it ain't so...

Well, I could go on here about how we got in the car and drove home to the ranch to take a look the poor unfortunate soul and make arrangements for the vet. I could give you a synopsis of the conversation we had about how the pug thinks he 150 pounds of pure instinct, it’s just too bad his instincts are so far off. I could give you a million reasons why pugs were not built for a rugged ranch experience and how he might lose his eyeball and might have to wear a patch and how we might have to start letting him smoke cigars and get him a peg-leg and start calling him Captain Pugwash or Lucky

I could tell you how he should have learned his lesson the first time. Remember that?

But you can’t really get after a dangerously curious, playful and mischievous little smooshy faced innocent black dog who has proven time and time again that he is too big for his britches when you come home to find him dramatically hunkered down on my parents’ couch in the hour of his discontent.

Even when his hours of suffering turned into my own as I was charged with driving 45 miles to and from the vet to drop the brave pup off to be sedated and eyeball examined. And then I drove back again to pick him up only to be rewarded with a hefty bill and a bag full of prescription meds that rival the collection you would find in Charlie Sheen’s medicine cabinet.

None of them prescribed for me.

Anyone have a pill organizer I can borrow?

Even though I argue that I may need the meds more than the damaged pug after days of wrestling the 35 pound porcupine hunter to the floor to pry his poor, sore, eye open in order to apply ointment directly on the eyeball as the pug literally puts on an act that consists of whipping his head back and forth in an attempt to release my firm, but loving, grip on the neck that he doesn’t possess. All the while the pug pretends he can’t breathe by making these very dramatic snorting and puking noises while I whisper (because that’s all I can do…still) “It’s ok boy. Shhh. Shhh. You’re ok, you dumb, dumb, poor, dumb dog.”

Five

Times

A

Day

For

Three

Weeks.

Pathetic made even more pathetic by the little bandage where his I.V. was placed. Oh my heart.

And after all of this– the money, the drama, the pain and the ointment, the damn pug that I love despite my best efforts still might lose his eyeball, have to wear a patch, get a peg-leg and a cigar and call himself Lucky.

Oh pray for his eyeball.

I just love those big, buggy eyes.

Again, my heart...

So that’s that. That is what my life has become.

Hope you have a prick-free weekend.

And if you’re venturing out into the wild blue yonder please let the pug’s misadventures be a lesson to you to always wear the proper attire, and for the love of ggaawwd, your safety glasses.

I am all about the lessons.

Love you and you’re welcome.

Oh, and P.S. in case you’re worried, the pug is pain free (thanks to the drugs and the wonderful vet care) and was caught chasing the horses and barking at coyotes yesterday in true form with all of his passion and gusto.

“Never. Say. Die.”

That’s what he told me when he got home.


The colors of the season…

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Not a palm tree...

My mom and pops went to Jamaica for a week.

While they were basking in the rays of 80+ degree weather, jumping from cliffs, swimming with the fishies and enjoying one or two cocktails while floating in a pool, husband and I had everything under control back here at the ranch.

Well everything except the severe winter weather advisory that led to a 24 hour power outage which resulted in the mis-fire of mom and pops’ furnace when the electricity was finally restored.  And it just so happens that husband’s favorite pastime is fixing things (he has to do it a lot considering the walking disaster he married) but after one to two hours standing in front of the mysterious mechanism, scratching his head, tinkering with wires and searching for that elusive reset button while standing inside a house that was reaching thirty degrees, even Mr.Fixit husband and his electrician father on the other end of the phone line were utterly defeated by the thing.

Not ocean waves

So husband moved on to the next conundrum: removing porcupine quills from the snout of their dog left in our care. And I went for the space heaters and the phone to call the furnace guy.

And then we sat in their hot tub and drank their wine and called them names behind their backs.

But all’s well that ends well. Especially when you find that hidden furnace button, save the dog and throw away the empty wine bottles in time for your parents to come home with tanned skin, beaded hair and a new accent.

Ya Mon

And so we went over to their house on Monday evening to eat steak dinner and hear their stories and look at their pictures and see that video of the cliff jump.

And now I’m colder than ever.

Remember when it looked like this around here?

Remember when these things grew out of the ground, looking all colorful and happy and bright?

Remember when I could open the windows and let the breeze blow through the house while I milled around in my short shorts and tank top?

Remember when I slid down the clay butte in my pajamas in the middle of the night and scraped up my ass and my hands and my feet, but at least I didn’t get frost bite?

The evidence

The evidence...

Waaaahhhhh…hurry up summer!

Don’t get me wrong, no matter the season I am so inspired by this land around me. It changes every day and comes up with different ways to awe me, but this last week I have been dreaming in color. The colors that I haven’t seen for a while.

Green.

Pink.

Orange.

Yellow.

Yellow Flowers

Purple.

So after sitting at my desk all day yesterday staring at the computer screen trying to complete a project while banging my head against the wall learning a new program, my eyes were squinty, my throat was dry, my hair was standing on end and I smelled like bad attitude.

Growl...

So I bundled up and went outside to take some photos. Because I have found photography has become my new therapy– it’s teaching me to look for the beauty and interest in the small, ordinary big-picture things.

I pulled on my long underwear, strapped on the old snow shoes, tied on the neckerchief and stepped outside into my wild backyard.

Maybe I’ll see those elk in the fields pops was talking about.

Maybe I’ll see a deer or a rabbit or coyote or, if I walk far enough, maybe I can catch a glimpse of those bison on the hill.

Maybe I’ll walk up to the horses. Maybe I’ll sit and listen to the wind, maybe I’ll…

…freeze to death.

Shit, it was cold.

I made it about a quarter of a mile before I really realized it and then, once decided, couldn’t run for cover soon enough. But I was determined to be inspired.

Determined.

So I started the pickup and loaded my fluffy self up in there. I was going to take a drive. I was going to find me some wildlife, some sparkle, some shine, something to lift my spirits.

I drove down the back road, radio off, peering from side to side, slowing at the corners, looking in all of the washouts and coulees where I know the deer lay, where the birds might be, where the elk might saunter through, hoping for a jack-rabbit, a cow, a neighbor, anything to cross my path…

But it seemed that it was just me out here on the empty road, in the quiet cold air, in the cab of my pickup feeling, I’ll admit, kind of alone in this season that seems to be dragging us all to our breaking point…

So I turned around to head back home in the…

white…

gray…

brown…

But just as I was giving up and resigning to the season and the endless wait for spring– getting after myself for being one of those northerners who complains about the winter weather as if I wasn’t expecting it, I was put back in my place by one thing that makes me fall in love with my world over and over again…

the one thing that never lets me down…

And as the sun moved down over the horizon, it slowly gave to me all the colors I’ve been missing, all the sparkle and shine and inspiration this pasty northern girl needed at a time like this, saving me from myself once again.

And so it will be summer again. And this…

will finally get dressed already…

But until then, I’ve got the sun and the sky. And the sky’s got my back.

Oh, I know Jamaica has the sky too, but I just think it feels and looks better out here…

…you know, where the frozen ones don’t take it for granted.

 

From spring fever to no heater

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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.