Tag Archives: ranch

I will leave the light on…

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To come down from the buttes after staying out a little too far past sundown only to see the lights of the barnyard illuminating the grass and the kitchen of the house glowing warmly through the windows, waiting for my return…

it means more to me than I can describe here.

I imagine the same sight greeting my grandparents, my aunt and uncle and my father. I imagine them feeling the same deep breath, the same overwhelming calm as they drove in from the fields, rode up to unsaddle a horse or strip off the layers from a hunt in the hills in the still of a late summer or autumn evening.

I imagine the smell of baked bread reaching them from the open windows or the smoke from a grilled steak waiting for them to sit down around the table, the door swinging open and the warmth of this old house whispering “this is home this is home this is home this is home…”

No matter how far you find yourself.

No matter the distance between you and these buttes.

No matter the time that has passed, the mistakes that you’ve made, the words you can’t take back, the pain you might hold onto, the life you might have found down the road or the love you might have lost here…

No matter.

Don’t worry.

This is home…

And I will leave the light on.

Party ’till the people come home…

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The ranch in summer. Its lush and green and yellow and smells of vegetation and clover and dirt and the backs of horses. Its been warm and sticky during the day and cool at night, perfect timing for pulling the windows open and laying on top of the sheets in my jammies while I read Barbara Kingsolver’s “Prodigal Summer” or, if I’m feeling particularly vegged-out and relaxed, watch the latest episodes of “So You Think You Can Dance…” (Hey, my interests are broad, don’t judge–I think it might be the best show on television.)

Anyway, yes, summer at the ranch. It’s quite lovely most of the time. Even more so when you are blessed with a day of rain in the beginning of August guaranteeing the countryside a few more weeks of green.

That was the case on Friday. It was gloomy and rainy all day and I was happy knowing that I didn’t have to water my flowers, and actually, come to think of it, I never really had to water them at all this summer.

Yes, and all of this moisture has been great for the lawn too, you know, the lawn I battled with in the beginning of June. Because once I got the forest knocked down, husband and I have been maintaining it, grooming it, weed whacking the crap out of it, and admiring our neon green, lush, nearly town-material lawn that surrounds the barn and almost distracts from the broken down garage.

Things were going well. We are on the downslope of summer and the lawn was still immaculate.

So I was kinda happy with the rain on Friday. I was pleased with the cool down and the chance to stay inside, eat husband’s homemade knoephla soup, and write some new music. And the next day, while it was still a drizzle, husband and I headed out the door to take an engineering student who was visiting from Sweden on a tour of the oil field activity in the area.

We had a great day planned for him and I was excited to learn about what husband does all day (besides driving around and checking on things…which is the explanation I have been giving to friends and family for the past three years…)  It was also nice to get to know someone our age from across the ocean and learn that we have so much in common over one of the best steaks I’ve ever had cooked for me at a restaurant. Seriously, if you haven’t been to The Bison Room in New Town, NDmake a date with your spouse, your gram, your kids, your best friend, yourself, whatever, but get there. They know what they’re doing. Ok, so there’s my western North Dakota traveling/tourist tip for you, now on with my captivating and intense story…

So there I was sitting shotgun in husband’s pickup at 8:30 pm on our way back to the ranch. I was full and pleased and ready for a nice Sunday spent maybe, oh, I don’t know, picking chokecherries, riding, cleaning, reading or mowing the lawn.

But it turns out the cows had other plans for us.

Because while we were out frolicking in the oil field and probably feasting on one of their cousins for dinner, the cows were waiting in the bushes for our taillights to disappear over the hill and out of sight. See, on their schedule was a picnic. A picnic of short, lush, well groomed, green grass growing before their big, brown eyes. So as soon as we hit the highway they skipped on over, pulled out their lawn chairs and coolers, staked out the volleyball net, the croquet set, the Norwegian horseshoes, and proceeded to have themselves a regular old block party…all 150 women, their offspring and their two boyfriends.

And all in my, lush, beautiful, neon green, rain-saturated yard.

I’ll tell you they must have been looking for us, you know, to invite us to the festivities, because the evidence of their attempts to break in were in the deep footprints dug in right up to the basement door, and the living room window, and the bathroom window, and the bedroom window. They really didn’t want us to miss it. I mean, I’m sure croquet is more fun when you invite guests with opposable thumbs.

And judging by the size and numbers of plops in my yard, I am guessing the eating was as good as their games.

Shit.


Shit.

Shit.

It smells like shit.

That’s what I said when we pulled into the yard in the dark and I stepped out of the pickup and into a fresh cow pie.

And as I scuffled my way to the front door, sniffing the pungent air, the illumination from the barnyard light revealed small reflections on water puddles in the lower yard, right next to the retaining wall and the flowers my grandmother planted that, um, used to be there…what the hell?

Is that mud?

Is that water sitting in deep crevices shaped like hundreds and hundreds of hoof prints?

Is that poop? I keep stepping in poop? Is it? I can’t see?!!

Where are the damn dogs?

Snort, snort, slobber, slobber, yawn, whap, whap, whap.

Oh, there they are. Sleeping on the deck.

I growled to husband as we deduced that all signs pointed to a flaw in the system. The system where you have dogs on a ranch to keep the cows out of the yard.

Or to help you get them out of the heavy brush when you’re riding.

Or to assist you as you herd them through a gate.

That would be the idea of a cow dog.

But, oh yeah, that’s right. We don’t have cow dogs. We have dogs whose only purpose is to eat, sleep, poop in front of the stoop, drag dead things to the deck in front of our door and apparently party with the cows.


Whhhaaaaaaa!

Wwhhhyyyyyyaaaaaa!

3,000 acres and you party at my house?

Countless energy of screaming at you two dogs to get back, to stop chasing the damn cows, and you choose this day, these six hours, to actually obey a rule!!!

Hours spent in the sweltering sun clipping and whacking and working to create an acceptable carpet of grass and all I’m left with is three thousand cow plops, ankle deep mud, an invasion of flies and a bad farmer’s tan???!!!

I stormed inside and booked a flight to  Sweden. Because I have a new friend there and he said we could come to visit anytime.

So I hope you’ll stick with me on my journey abroad and check out my adventures coming soon on my new blog: Meanwhile, back in Stockholm…

Oh, and if you love me,  do me a favor tonight…eat beef!

Rules of fencing the Veeder Ranch

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There are jobs at the ranch that are truly enjoyable at times.  Riding to gather cattle can be one of those jobs… if all goes well and the bull is in a good mood.

Unfortunately, the need for that task often signals the need to grab the tools and the bug spray to tackle the one job on the ranch that is often procrastinated and proves not quite as relaxing and soul-resurrecting as riding a good horse across a field full of fat and happy cattle.

It’s called fencing, and it’s not the kind that involves a skinny sword, a white jump suite and netted, alien headgear. It does, however,  involve wood ticks, nasty brush, a kazillion horse flies, barbed wire, pliers and a lot of bending over.

And if that doesn’t sound pleasing enough, ranchers get a little extra comfort when they pull on their flannel jammies at night knowing that they are never at a loss of work as long as they have barbed wire fences.

Because as long as they have fences, the fences will need to be fixed.

Some of my earliest memories as a ranch kid are of hopping in the pickup on a hot August day with my pops or my gramma and grampa to go check fences. I had a good gramma and grampa who understood how to make a tediously long, hot day more pleasing to a kid by ensuring that candy and cookies fell magically out of the passenger seat visor when I flipped it down.

Happened every time.

I remember my short legs stuffed in holy jeans leaning against the stick shift of the old blue truck as my pops drove slowly down the fence line, stopping every few moments to get out, grab a staple, piece of wire or new fence post and make a repair. I remember dozing off in the hot sunshine or getting out to pick wildflowers. I remember sweating and swatting the flies and buzzing bugs that lived and multiplied in the snarly, thorny, swampy brush patches where the fence was always down.

I remember eating a warm ham sandwich in a shady spot and drinking equally warm water out of my pops’ water cooler.

I remember the poke of the barbs as I helped hold a string of wire, the holes in my jeans I would get as I attempted to cross the mended fence, the hum of the Patty Loveless or Clint Black song coming through the dial am radio of the old work pickup.

I remember the quiet, with only the cows mooing from the right side of the fence when the pickup was turned off during a long repair. And I remember getting stuck when that pickup wouldn’t quite make it through a draw–particularly the time I took a new puppy along only to have her puke all over my lap as pops pushed and spun and rocked his way out of the hole he dug himself in.

But mostly I remember being hot.

It seemed like that was a requirement when it came to every fencing job: Make sure the temperature promised to hit well above 80 degrees, wait for mid-day and then put on your jeans, boots and long sleeved shirt and take on the job.

And so there I found myself, having flashbacks of those memories this past weekend as I hopped on the back of the 4-wheeler to help tackle a fence line by the fields with husband. I have never gone on a fencing job with anyone other than my pops, but I don’t know why I expected the rules of fencing to change with any other man or at any other age.

No sir, no ma’am, the only thing that changed since I was a seven-year-old fuzzhead was our means of transportation. And as we zoomed that 4-wheeler up the path to the fields in the blaring, scorching mid-day July sun, the horseflies took a split second or less to remember that my skin tasted delicious and just like that we began checking off tasks and situations on the list titled:

“Rules of Fencing at the Veeder Ranch.” 

They are as follows, in no particular order:

1) Well, we’ve been over the first one, but let’s just be clear. Choose to take your manual labor trip in the heat of the day. It is not a smart or comfortable option, but apparently the only option available to procrastinators who like to have a little coffee, a little bacon and a few eggs…and then another helping while they catch the end of CBS Sunday Morning.

2) Make sure to spray on a nice mist of Deep Woods OFF to ward off the hawk sized bugs…and then forget to load it up in the bucket with the rest of the supplies as you head miles into the wilderness. I mean, why on earth would we need a second dousing of the stuff in the middle of a raptor infested coulee? Besides, with more bug spray we wouldn’t be able to really test how much buzzing and biting a human furnace/sauna can can endure.


3) If you think you may need five to seven steel fence posts to get the job done be sure to only locate one to take along. I mean, a man needs a challenge and figuring out how to re-stretch a half-mile of wire using a rusty plier, reused fencing staples from when barbed wire was first invented, a pocket knife and one measly fence post is the type of feat only a real Renaissance/McGuiver type specimen can handle…and we’re those type of men out here…even if you are a woman…

Which brings me to the staples…

4) Forget them in the shop.

5) But for the love of Martha, don’t forget the pug. I mean running for three to four miles at top speed behind the 4-wheeler to a location void of water and adequate shade or breeze is the perfect death defying act for an insane lap dog. Go ahead, just try to leave him behind, but don’t be alarmed when he pops up over the hill, tongue dragging on the ground, snorting for air and making a beeline to the tiny bit of shade the mid-day sun provides off of your small ATV.

And while you’re at it…

6) Forget to bring your good leather gloves. Instead, pull on the pair with a small, undetectable hole where your right pointer finger is innocently located and make sure that opening in the protective fabric is just the right size for a thorn to poke through and draw blood. Because the number seven rule of fencing just happens to be…

7) Bleed. Because you’re not fencing until you’re good and itchy, poked, stabbed, bruised and bleeding.

8 ) So make sure to bring company. Because if a man cusses in the pasture and there’s no one there to hear it, is he really even angry?

And if you’re cussing anyway, you might as well..

9) Sweat. Sweat like hell. Sweat all that bug spray off. Sweat out all that water that you forgot to pack. Sweat so you must roll up your sleeves just enough to expose your tender flesh to the thorns and thistle you must reach into to yank up trampled fence…

10) and then bleed again, cuss again, sweat a little more, turn around to find that your companion has disappeared over the hill to pick wildflowers, decide that only a really svelte and athletic cow could maneuver through your fence repairs, head home for lunch with every intention of returning after the meal only to actually revisit the site the next morning to find those extra plump, extra lazy cows are in the field again.

Ahhh,fencing..


Yup.

Welcome short, spectacular season!

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I would like to interrupt the drizzling skies, raging rivers, mud puddles and frizzy hair to wish everyone a happy first day of summer.

I’ve been waiting for this for a while and went out last night, despite a threatening sky, to see how things are growing–

Martha, how they’re growing!

The cat came with.

I don’t know why he comes with.

Neither does he.

He was pretty pissed when the sky opened up and dumped buckets of rain on the grass that reached well over his head, so he disappeared somewhere…

that cat is weird…

Anyway,  I didn’t care about the rain (or the cat really) I just kept trucking up on to the top of a hill that, just months ago, required a good set of snowshoes and a hearty breakfast to reach.

Let’s reminisce for a moment:

December

June

December

June

December

June

December

June

December

June

What a difference a few months makes in this country!

I am always amazed how summer seems so far away during the depths of February when your cheeks are frozen, the FedEx man is stuck in your driveway and you find yourself wearing two parkas at once, only to wake up one morning to find grass up to your knees and every color of wildflower reaching for the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But this summer is shaping up to be as challenging and unpredictable as its cousin winter–with unprecedented precipitation and unexpected rising rivers. So today I celebrate, and then send my thoughts and prayers to those battling flood waters, farmers who can’t get in their fields and families displaced.


Because Mother Nature, true to her form this first day of summer continues to be unpredictable, miraculous, stunning, gentle, quiet, subtle, colorful, splendid, nurturing and unforgiving all at once. 

Here’s hoping that whether the rain soaks your skin, the sun hits your shoulders or the gentle breeze tousles your hair you can find a way to take a moment and give thanks for a season so short and so spectacular today.

My built-in-best-friend

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My little sister is home for the summer and things have sure brightened up around here.

I mean just look at her. Look at those dimples. Look at that smile. Look at those kissable cheeks…

..doesn’t she just literally scream, “aw well, shit happens, life goes on…let’s go have a beer.”


Awwww. So cute.  I love my little sister and having her around here for a few months is like having a built-in-best-friend who I can call at anytime to come and hang out, help me move heavy stuff, join us for a BBQ, or a quick trip to the lake and not have to worry about judgement when she shows up and there is a cat sitting on my kitchen table (how did that get there?) or when we finally make it to the lake with the boat and, you know, starts smoking and quits working while we watch from the shore in our swimming suits as husband floats away. 

No big deal, says little sister.

Shit happens.

And then she makes sure to record her big sister in a heroic moment of plunging into the bone chilling early June lake water to pull her man back to shore (and when I say bone chilling, I mean so cold I couldn’t breathe for a good ten minutes. So cold I think my skin shrunk. So cold I think my voice changed permanently. So cold the damages are irreparable). Anyway, yes, little sister made sure to snap a few photos and laugh her pretty little head off as the warm sun shone on her and her stubby little feet stayed dry.

I....

cant...

breathe.

I think I may have also heard her say something like “It’s times like these I’m glad I’m not married…this is the type of wifely duty I try to avoid.”

Ah, little sister, you might as well get married in that snarky hat. I hate to break it to you, but I think that phrase was coined for the union.

Anyway, I love having her out here, because I love her of course, but also because it reminds me of the old days.

The days when she stood three foot four, had a permanent crusted tear on her cheek, bandaids up and down her arms from picking at mosquito bites and patches on her little overalls.

I die.

Because she reminds me of the days when I was still learning to control my hair along with my temper and a little sister with patches on her jeans who wanted to go everywhere I went.

Including all of my secret spots.

Secret spots that weren’t so secret once I got there, having written and performed my latest Grammy Award winning song at the top of my lungs along the way, only to find that little sister was peeking her head out from behind a big oak tree four feet behind me.

Which prompted me to work on my diva attitude (you need one of those if you’re going to win a Grammy) and scream at her to go home, go away, scram, get out of here, you’re so annoying, quit following me, go play inside, etc….

But little sister has always been smarter than me. She would turn around and walk slowly toward the house, waiting for me to continue my Disney Princess-esque concert to the trees and birds and then quickly spin around and conduct her sneaking ritual, tiptoeing from tree to tree all over again until I broke down and let her stay.

I always broke down and let her stay.


In fact, by the time our childhood came to a close, little sister had secured a contract for me to build her her a matching fort across the creek, complete with an old lawn furniture chair cushion and a tin-can telephone so we could stay in touch.

What what?

Ah hell, little sister has always been savvy like that.

who could say no to this?

Because the thing is, little sister is my little sister by five years and my big sister’s little sister by eleven. That’s a lot of time between siblings. And out here where her nearest friend lived a mile and a half up hill on a gravel road, you can’t blame the little tyke for seeking company in her weird, (cool?) big sister. I mean, she had strong little legs, but that was quite the trek on her tricycle.

And at the end of the day, I was always glad she wanted a friend in me–always glad she hung on even when I left her to fend for herself after our bottle calf, Pooper, escaped from his pen, and thinking little sister was his mother, proceeded to head butt, push, lick and and chase the three foot five, band-aid clad, curly headed girl down the gravel road to our house as her hero and protector sprinted as fast as her eleven-year old legs could take her to the safety of the house.

Yup, that's us with Pooper...

But little sister could always hold her own, which came in handy when she had to deflect the lies I told her about how elves live under the big mushrooms that grow out of cow poop and she really should spend the rest of the afternoon flipping them over and trying to catch a few. Little sister’s wit and limited patience for tasks without rewards saved her on that one and I got my big sister butt chewed when, after about three mushroom overturns, she discovered more bugs than elves.

Yes, I could never pull one over on her or convince her to do anything she didn’t want to do, because what she wanted for the longest time was to hang out with me. And then the sun continued rising and setting and pretty soon we did what all little girls do eventually…we grew up.

And those years between us got in the way. Suddenly tagging along was no longer an option as I moved to town school, got a car and then a boyfriend, who, now come to think of it, would come out to the ranch to visit me and spend the entire afternoon teaching little sister to play chess…

Ahhh, there she went again…

Anyway, that’s the thing I’ve always admired about little sister–she has always known exactly who she is and what she wants. The same way she wooed me into building her a fort, and charmed my boyfriend (who became my husband and one of her best friends) into playing chess with her, to working her ass off for straight As in college while taking time to stand in the crowd to listen to her favorite band, she has always took her life and made the most of it…

smiling the whole way.

So now as she finishes up college and moves on into the real world, I am finding that those years that floated between us, pushing us together when we were both young girls and pulling us apart through adolescence and early adulthood, they just don’t matter anymore.

That little sister who followed me through the trees, listened on the other side of the hall night after night as I practiced my guitar, fought with me until her face turned red, rode with me in my 1983 Ford LTD as I learned to drive in the big town, who shares the same issues with her frizzy, always growing hair and always tells it to me straight, has always been my built-in-best friend.


And now I am beginning to understand what that little dimpled faced girl felt like as she was watching me grow up and wander away from her.  With the world at her feet and a beauty and good-humored personality that just blossoms a bit more every day, I want nothing more than to stand in her shadow, to follow her from tree to tree, to sit next to her at the table, to kick over any mushrooms she asks me to and, you know, plop down my lawn furniture in my fort across the creek and convince her, from the other end of our tin-can telephone, to never leave me.

For more sister sentiment, listen to the song I wrote about her here:  Alex

Better than television

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You know at the end of the  CBS Sunday Morning news program, after the human interest stories, the witty commentary, the pleasant conversations with Charles Osgood and his equally pleasant bow-ties? You know, after the one or two cups of coffee you consume watching celebrities and do gooders and geniuses tell their stories about how they have and are going to save the world that get you feeling all warm and fuzzy about humanity and ready to go out and maybe save the world yourself  just as soon as you have a couple waffles, a few more cups of coffee and, you know, change out of your sweatpants.

And just before you switch off the t.v. to work on completing the aforementioned tasks, that damn program puts its little feel-good cherry on top of the sun-shining through your window by leaving you with a glimpse into a wild place somewhere in this world. They just leave the camera there for a few moments as pink flamingos stand on one leg and poke their faces in the water, or penguins slide down an iceberg, or the mountains just exist on your television screen in all of their glory.

You know what I’m talking about? Do you watch the program?

You really should watch the program.

Anyway, the end of the show is always my favorite–to see a piece of the world existing in front of me uninterrupted, no effects, no music or frills or voice-over telling me what to think about it allows me to  exist, for a moment, as a pink falmingo.

Or a mountain.

It’s television at it’s best.

So in the spirit of my favorite program I leave you this Sunday evening with a glimpse of the wild that passed through the ranch yesterday evening and welcomed me home by surprise as I zoomed along the pink road, singing a Steve Earl song at the top of my lungs.

I sucked in my breath as out of the corner of my eye I spotted ten bull elk with velvet horns lingering along the skyline.  I slammed on my breaks, kicked up pink dust, rolled down my window and sat with Steve Earl in my ears, my mouth hanging open wide and pure, unbridled, spirited beasts breathing and snorting and running before my eyes and through my own wild world…

And I was an elk for a minute…

which turns out to be more glamourous than a flamingo…and, you know, quite a bit better than television.

Want to get a little closer to these beasts? Click here for another wild elk encounter.

Tiny little miracles (and some other things)

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I went out yesterday morning to feed some babies. It was the first time the sun appeared after a few days of rain and it was fresh and crisp and lovely all around.

I had a major amount of work to do in the house. Like piles of notes and phone calls to make and stories to write. That’s the thing about working from home, when you’re home, that work waves to you all uppity like from that little nook of a desk that sits in the middle of your house. You can’t escape it, you know, unless you wander off.

So I wandered, me and big brown dog. (The pug? So glad you asked. He was snoring on the couch inside, avoiding mornings like the plague is his thing.)

Then I said  to myself: “Self, you’ve got time. This is why you live here. To feed the animals and spray the weeds and unload the dishwasher and avoid the laundry and ride some horses and wander. There might be something in there that says write and be productive and make a living, but I can’t be sure right now…oh and look, how convenient, I have my camera with me! How did that happen? I think I’ll just climb up this little knob and maybe I can find something to photograph seeing as things are all showered up and sparkly.”

So sparkly.

I like sparkly.

I wasn’t expecting anything but a couple bluebells, some horse poop, maybe a dried up crocus or two and a little time to clear my head, but as soon as I hit the top of the first butte, BAM!

It’s wildflower season.


I think we’ve been over my wildflower love affair before so you will have to forgive me as I revel in my obsession and breathe in the colors I’ve been waiting for all winter, the colors I could only find briefly in the sky that touched the white buttes on clear evenings.

I love that sky and I’ll see it again someday, but you’ll have to forgive the fact that all I desire is to put my nose to the ground for a few weeks, to poke around through the tall grass, kick the mushrooms, smell those soft petals and take them home for my kitchen table.

You’ll have to forgive all the photos of flowers that will be covering these pages during this very fleeting time in this very fussy climate. Because I am simply amazed, year after year, that as soon as the ground thaws out a garden that no human person planted just appears out of all of that clay and mud and poop and rocks.

Forgive me, yes. Forgive my amazement and overt enthusiasm for tiny little miracles like this…

and this…

and these…

Because who wouldn’t be excited about their own personal floral shop, a small offering given to us out here for enduring all of this snow and rain.

Gifts like the smell of sweet peas on your kitchen table that make a deadline a little more attainable, something that the dried up Glade plugin that has been sitting in my outlet for months has never fully achieved.

So thank you for taking this little wander with me. I tell ya there is a lot more where that came from, but I’ll try to restrain myself  to ensure that you get some of the other exciting news from the ranch. Important things like:

  • it’s wood-tick season
  • the pug currently still has all of his limbs in spite of his love for picking on things bigger and far more dangerous than him
  • Cowboy has been grilling the most delicious cuts of beef and venison, reminding me every day that I made the right choice in husband (even if he doesn’t do the dishes)
  • it has been too wet to get the cows home and
  • I am making to do lists for little sister to ignore when she comes to live at the ranch for the summer.

Oh, and I’m playing music with pops tomorrow evening in Medora at the Roughriders Hotel–Theodore’s Dining Room. I will also be on Prairie Public Radio today at 3:00 (CT) to talk about being a part of Dakota Air: The Radio Show  at the Burning Hills Amphitheater coming up on June 4th. Due to flooding in the Medora area, this show has been rescheduled for September 17th! But I’ll still be chatting on the radio, so catch it if you can online or on your dial. They’ll be playing some of my tunes and I’ll be talking about new music, old music and what’s to come.

More details on my upcoming appearances:

Thanks for all your support. Here, I picked these for you:

Hope to see you out west soon!

Growing up North Dakotan

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This Sunday I will be in Fargo participating in a panel discussion for the Why Radio Show.

The subject?

Growing up North Dakotan.

I will take a seat next to individuals who have a handle on their identities, who may have wandered, explored their world and asked the questions that need to be asked. And one of those questions is “What does it really mean to be North Dakotan?”

As a woman whose heart has been planted solid here, but whose feet and mind have wandered with music and education and the winding road, I have been asked this question in many forms. It’s like asking what it means to you to hold your last name, or wear your grandmother’s ring, or to lay down next to the man you love every night.

How do you answer it?

Not everyone can speak about it. Not everyone can explain.

Not everyone needs to.

I was talking to my good friend  on the phone yesterday afternoon. As I stood right in the middle of our home state she was in Oregon, a place on the map she picked with her husband. She had been there for nearly three months after years of college and graduate school they were looking for adventure, new opportunities, valuable experience before they settled into their lives. She is loving the ocean and the coffee shops and the eclectic culture. She loves the rain and the flowers and the new scenery and the people.

But you know what she said to me between breaths about her plans and her new apartment and the photography show she is putting together?

She is missing something.

“I miss that prairie. I want to lay in my grass and smell my lilacs and plant my garden and breathe in that sky. I miss my home.”

Home.

Her home.

Who are these people who hold the scent of the dirt, the push of the wind, the endless winters, the wheat fields, the small town in such regard?

Who tends their grandmother’s garden, brings in the baby calves into the basement in the dead of a blizzard? Who works the teller line and serves your morning coffee? Who has owned the Implement Dealership for years?

And who roams all over the world for years on end, traveling over seas to live and work in foreign languages, who are leaders of cities and  major corporations? Who serves in the military,  climbs mountains and rafts raging rivers only to find themselves pulled back again, to be haunted by the memories of sunsets and 4th of July Celebrations no matter how how far they have traveled or how long they’ve been gone.

Who is North Dakota?

We are rural route roads, beat-up mailboxes and dusty school bus seats. We are rides in the combine, summer sausage sandwiches, a thermos of coffee washed down with warm lemonade and  faces black with dirt after a hot August day.

Two miles to a gravel road on the edge of town and we are freedom, our father’s truck, twelve years old behind the steering wheel.

We are first loves and last loves and forever loves found on those backroads at night, on front porches, in the backseats of cars and under a blanket shared in the stands at a football game.

We are the stars that light up the endless sky at night, family farms, four generations of the same recipe on Christmas Eve.

The barnyard light.

We are white wood prairie churches, our mother’s voice quietly singing the hymns, jello with suspended vegetables and mayonnaise casseroles waiting for us in the basement when the service is through.

We are wet clay caked to cowboy boots, the black soil of the valley, the stoplight in town.

High heels and business suits, running shoes and hoping things will stay the same…knowing that they need to change.

Number crunchers, songs that must be sung, books that must be written.

Snake bitten.

We scream for sun and pray for rain and push the river from our doors. We’ve been here before.

Chokecherry jam, misquote bites, country fairs, one station on the radio, too young for our first beer, FFA and 4-H steers. Too young to leave here.

We are race car tracks and power lines, hockey rinks and barbed fence wire.

Drilling rigs and endless fields of wheat…September heat.

We are bicycle tires in the middle of Main Street, fireworks in May, popsicles and swimming pools and a stop at the Tastee Freeze please. Rodeos and American Legion, football heroes, lead singers in the band, the ferris wheel in town.

Pow wows, three legged races, familiar faces, dances in the street.

Fishing in the creek.

We are “Pete’s kid,” “Edie’s granddaughter,” and  “Your mother wants you home right away!”

We are pushed to go and pulled to stay, we are leaving this place as soon as we’re grown.

And we are the sky we can’t explain, predictably unpredictable, colorful and full of rage and gentle hope that it’s all ok.

We’re the wind, relentless.

The snow, endless.

Sharp and hard and steadfast and certain like the winter and the change in weather.

We are the dirt under our nails, our wind tangled hair, the cattails and bluebells and big white tail deer.

We are all of these things that make up a home, but home is not ours to take.

It is in us and we have been claimed.

Join me for:

“Growing Up North Dakotan”

A panel discussion featuring Joshua Boschee, Kathryn Joyce, Jessie Veeder Scofield, and others. Moderated by WHY? host Jack Russell Weinstein

Prairie Public Television Studio
5-7 pm
207 5th Street North
Fargo, ND
Facebook Event 

The event is free. Come be a part of the audience, ask questions, make comments, and engage philosophically with this most important issue.

If you can’t be in Fargo, please share with me here how North Dakota has claimed you.

Back in the saddle

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Ahhh,  finally. I got my butt back in the saddle this Sunday for the first time this spring.

Well, technically this was my inaugural ride:

(Two butts in the saddle, always better than one.)

But after the babies left husband and I saddled up the sorrels and took off over the greening landscape to really test things out.


Really, my first ride of the spring should have happened a month or two ago, but given unpredictable weather, skies spitting snow and writing deadlines the horses got to stay out to pasture for a few extra weeks.

I like to think they were itching to go too, but their big bellies and lazy attitudes gave me the impression they were just fine with procrastinating the inevitable.

Ahh, the first ride. It’s something we wait for all winter long as the snow drifts pile up at our door. We try to remember it ever being green. We talk about all of the work we will get done when it thaws. We can’t wait to rummage through the tack, brush the winter hair off the horses and slip the them some grain to coax them in and see which one has the most spunk and, you know, who might hit the ground for lack of practice in both human and beast.

But no matter the months it seems to come back easy every year. The cinch gets tightened, the horse grunts and swings his head around, I pull up my pants, put my toe in the stirrup and launch my butt into position.

Deep breath in, I give my ride a bit of a kick to ease him out of the barnyard. This time around it took a bit of convincing, but soon we were off, right behind husband who has been oiling and training the stirrups of his saddle in the basement of the house all winter. Finally he got to test it out.

Finally he got to climb to the top of that hill and feel the breeze on his skin, smell the sweet grass, feel the sway of the horse’s back beneath him, test out a trot and then a lope along old cow trails and through the clay buttes…

down the draws to his last elk spotting, just past a bull snake basking himself in the sun, quick to escape to the nearest gopher hole.

Finally I was able to relax and fall in line with the rhythm of my horse’s pace, feel the sun on my shoulders…

be reminded of how the land rises and falls when the weight of winter has been lifted, take in the view of the most handsome man…

smell the sweet sweat of my favorite animal, hollar at the dogs who follow too close and be exactly where I wanted to be.

Yes, no matter what we say during the winter months, the promises we make to ourselves to get the work done, to check the fences and cut trails, the first ride of the season is nothing but a meandering, soul rejuvenating, deep breath in, unpredictable, blissed-out therapy session with just a little edge, you know, because of that hitting the ground thing.

The first ride–a necessity for sanity and a sweet, sweet success (and I am happy to report no butts met the ground this time around).

Such a success that nobody here gave a second thought to picking ticks off our jeans the rest of the night.

Wish you were there with me. I promise you wouldn’t have had issues with the ticks…or the snake. That’s just how heavenly it was.

Ah well, maybe next time.

Until then, go find your blissed-out place, you know, the one that confirms a change in season, and bask in it…

A promise of summer

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It’s been raining at the ranch for the last few days.

Raining, and thundering, and pouring and flooding and rushing the creekbeds.

And smelling so sweet.

So although I’m an outspoken fan of the sun, I know this is necessary. I know this is what spring does.

So I say bring it on. Let the heavens pour down and wash that winter away. Wash it clean and squeaky. We’ve been frozen and thirsty and our hair needs washing…

the worms need air…

the lilacs need watering…

the horses need waking up.

Rain sky. Cry it out. Turn the brown neon and make the flowers hunch over under the weight of your necessary presence.

I don’t mind. Really. I will stand in it all day.

I’ll splash in your puddles, let it soak in my skin, slide down the clay buttes, jump over the rushing streams. Because I forgot what this feels like, being soaked to the core and warm in spite of it.

I forgot what it looks like when the lighting breaks apart the sky. 

I forgot how the thunder shakes the foundation of this little house, how it startles me from sleep and fills my heart with a rush of loneliness, a reminder that the night carries on while I’m sleeping.

I forgot how clean it smells, how green the grass can be, how many colors are in a rainbow.

So go on. Rain.

Rain all you want.

Rain forever on this hard ground and turn this pink road red..

This brown ground green

Let your drops encourage the fragile stuff, the quiet beauty that has been sleeping for so long to wake up and show her face to the sky.

I’ll be there waiting to gasp over it, to gush and smile and stick my nose in the sweet scents and return home to track your mud into my house where the soup is on.
Rain. Rain. Rain. You tap at my windows…
and promise me summer.