Tag Archives: Veeder Ranch

The animals of winter…

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Well the wind blew winter in this weekend and I breathed in the frozen air, a kind of sigh of relief that the season didn’t skip us altogether. Nope, the snow and the cold made it just in time to keep us wondering if there will be lions or lambs trotting in for the grand opening of March.

Oh, it doesn’t really matter much anyway. Around here we can’t trust in spring until the first weeks of June no matter how easy the winter season was on us. But on Sunday morning I was reminded of how much I missed winter all of these months when it was supposed to be snowing. The months I have come to call the extended fall…the early spring…

But we had winter yesterday and I couldn’t wait to get out in it. I squeezed into my long underwear, pulled on layers, tied my scarf around my neck, made sure my wool cap covered my ears and zipped my coat to my chin. The snow was fresh and the wind was blowing it in sparkly swirls around the barnyard. The hay bales were adequately frosted in neatly stacked white drifts, remnants of the small blizzard that blew through the ranch in the evening and was lingering into the late morning hours.

I stuck out my tongue to taste the snowflakes and snuggled down into the collar of my coat like a turtle as I walked toward the horses munching on hay below the barn.

I wished I had their fur coats, thick and wooly and brave against the wind.I wished I had their manes, wild and tangled and smelling of dust and autumn leaves, summer heat and ice. They keep it all in there, all of the seasons.

They nudged and kicked at one another, digging their noses deeper in the stack of hay, remembering green grass and fields, tasting warmer weather in their snack. I lingered there with them, noticing how the ice stuck on their eyelashes and clung to the long hair on their backs.

I scratched their ears and pulled some burs out of their manes and imagined what grove of trees they picked to wait out the storm last night, standing close and breathing on one another’s back. A herd.

I followed them out of the protection of the barnyard and into the pasture where the frozen wind found my cheeks and the dogs cut footprints in the fluffy snow in front of my steps. They played and barked and jumped and sniffed and rolled in the white stuff, like children on a snow day.

I found the top of the hill and  remembered that I hadn’t felt this cold for months.

I had forgotten how my cheeks can go numb, how my fingertips ache, now my eyelashes stick together at the close of a blink and how the wind finds its way through the layers of clothing and freezes my skin. I forgot that sometimes it doesn’t matter that you took care to wear wool socks and three pairs of pants, we are never as prepared as the animals. Sometimes the weather just wins.

I wished I had fur on my ears, tufts on my feet, whiskers to catch the snow.


I wished I had hard hooves to anchor me in the snow, my own herd to lean against, to protect me from the wind.

I wished I was part of a pack, chasing and jumping and rolling through the drifts.


Oh, I would have stayed out longer if I had these things. I would have explored how the creek had froze, stuck my nose in the snow, walked along the banks of the coulee, leaned against the buttes and followed the indecisive sun.

But my scarf wasn’t thick enough, there was snow in my boots and my skin is fragile and thin. No, my body’s not wooly and my nose is not fuzzy. In fact, I wasn’t sure if my nose was still attached to my face. And my fingers? Well, I decided then as I turned my body back toward the house with a billowing chimney that there was a reason for those fingers I wasn’t sure I would be able to keep. Yes, those fingers knit sweaters and sew together blankets, our hands build fires and houses to protect us, our arms wrap around one another, our feet propel us toward shelter or sun and our brains invent things like warm, spicy soup and hot coffee and buttery buns.

No, we might not have fur coats, but we have opposable thumbs.

I pointed my frozen feet toward the house and flung open the door, stripped off my layers and stood over the heater vent, happy to have experienced winter, happy for my warm house and man-made blankets.

And happier still for a promise of spring that isn’t too far away on this winter day…


When I could break untamable horses and catch fish with a spear…

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When I was younger, a little girl all wrapped up in the magic of this place, my favorite book of all time was “My Side of the Mountain.” I’m sure you’ve read it. It’s about a boy who finds himself living away from home in the wilderness of the mountains inside of a giant hollowed out tree. I can’t remember the exact story now or why he was alone out there, funny how those details escape me no matter how many times I went over the pages and marked my favorite parts. The parts where there were diagrams of how to build a fire with no supplies and something about a windmill and making a spear for fishing.

I still have the book buried somewhere deep in the rubble of the basement. It was one I could not give up to charity or to my younger sister. She just wouldn’t understand. She was a normal girl after all. A normal girl who read about horses and babysitting and a guy named Harry Potter.

Oh, I read about horses too. Horses that needed to be rescued from an island and a kid who became friends with a wolf, and another kid who overcame obstacles and won the Iditarod with a pack of misfit dogs and a whistle. I read about little girls growing up on the prairie during the homesteading days, riding in covered wagons, getting lost in blinding snow storms and making dolls out of corn cobs. I made one of those dolls myself.

I wanted to be these kids.

I wanted to be the free-spirited girl who broke the free-spirited horse. I wanted to live in a time where there was no “Garfield and Friends” on television, where we ate what we planted and went to school in a one room school-house. I wanted to be the girl who beat up the bully and wore pants when dresses were the rule.

I wanted to break the rules. I wanted to tame a wolf puppy, train a wild falcon to hunt, catch fish with a spear I sharpened out of a tree branch and exist in a far away time where those things were necessary for survival.

Screw microwave popcorn and Super Mario brothers, I wanted adventure!

And I wanted to live in the wilderness like the kid I came to love in “My Side of the Mountain.”

I am sure I wasn’t unlike most kids at 9 or 10 or 11 years old. We all wanted to prove our capabilities, stand out from the crowd, be the best at something. At that age most of us were lost in some sort of fantasy, whether it was flying to the moon, getting a puppy or discovering that elves really do live under mushrooms like in that book we just read. We all had a little more confidence than we had experience at the real world

So I’d like to think that it wasn’t that unusual that I, a 10-year-old girl who already lived about as far out in the middle of nowhere as anyone could live, had convinced myself that I could survive out in the wilderness alone. Without a house. Or a toilet. Or my momma’s cheeseburger chowder.

Yes, there was a time that was my plan. And let it be known that as a kid, I was pretty serious about these kinds of things. In the evenings I would step off of the bus from a day at country school, grab a snack, and head out up the creek behind our house. For months I would work on building what I called “secret forts” all along the creek that winds through our ranch. In the oaks and brush that grew along the bank I would identify just the right tree, one that was bent over just so, growing parallel to the ground, a perfect frame for which to create a sort of tent like structure out of fallen logs. And then I would begin the tedious process of locating and moving fallen branches, branches that took every ounce of muscle and try in my spindly little body to budge out of their place under overgrown vegetation and fallen leaves. But when it was dislodged from its space, I would drag it back to my tree and hoist it up to rest next to the last one I had managed to maneuver.

It would take a few days, but eventually I would have my secret fort enclosed with every moveable log and branch within a 100 foot radius. And when it was complete I would look around to make sure my little sister hadn’t followed me here like she did last time, identifying my plan and ruining the secrecy of the secret forts.

And then I would lay down inside of  it. And under the flawed “shelter” of fifty logs leaning on a tree, providing nothing but a faulty wind break for the day dreaming girl laying on her back in the grass and leaves and twigs underneath, I would think about my next move. I would need a door. Yes. That would be necessary. I could make the door the way I imagined Huck Finn made his raft. I would need some rope. Some rope and a knife. I wonder if dad would let me carry a knife? I need some sort of blanket. Maybe there’s something in the barn. Oh, and a fire. Of course!

I would be scouring the creek bottom for granite rocks to arrange in a proper fire circle when the sun sink down below the banks and I would decide I wasn’t quite ready to spend the night. Besides, I forgot to bring a snack and the wild raspberries weren’t quite ripe yet. Taking one last look at my creation and deciding to reevaluate the next afternoon, I would turn my back to it and follow the cow trail back toward the house where my little sister was likely lurking in the shadows, having found out my secret again, begging me to let her help next time. Begging me to let her in the fort as the sun gave off its last light and we argued and grappled until we could smell dad’s steaks on the grill or mom’s soup on the stove.

This was my daily ritual for months and one of my signature childhood memories. Eventually I gave in and helped my little sister build her own fort. A much smaller fort. Across the creek. Out of site.

I thought I wanted to be alone out there, left to my own survival skills, but it turned out that having company was a nice addition, no matter how stubborn and annoyingly curious that company might be. So we built a tin-can telephone that stretched from my fort to hers and brought down old chair cushions from the shed, searched for wild berries, tried to catch frogs and minnows in the pond and spent our evenings planning our next move: spending the night.

But we never did it. We never spent the night. Summer gave way to fall and the leaves fell and covered the floor of our paradise. We would pull on our beanies, mittens and boots and trudge down the freezing creek to clear out the fire ring we weren’t yet brave enough to use. And then the cold set in and the snow came and the neighbor girls called us to go sledding and our dream of being wilderness women collected snow and waited on a warmer season.

I can’t help but think about those girls on days like these. Days when the cold sets in and the house seems smaller. Days when the toilet is doing the thing where it leaks, burnt casserole from the night before sits waiting for a clean-up on my countertop, the television’s blank and broken.

There’s no morning news today.

No one but me and the wind out here. The wind that seems to be calling me this morning to get out of the house. Come out of behind those curtains, from under the shelter of the shingles. Come have an adventure girl. Come dream about hollowed out trees, living on wild berries, building a fire for warmth and living a life like no one lives anymore.

I step outside and follow the trail to the creek bed, trying to remember where I set that first fort. Trying to remember what pulled me out here all of those years ago. Trying to remember the fantasy, the magic as the cold bites at my cheeks and the snow crunches under my feet.

I turn around and I miss my sister.

I turn around and I’m alone. Alone with a woman who used to be a girl I knew, a girl who thought she could tame wolves, fight off the bad guy, break untamable horses and live alone in the wild.

I follow the creek and look for her. I know she’s here somewhere. I hope she hasn’t given up.

I could really use her right now.

Your story in a song…

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I have been focusing quite a bit of my energy on my music these past few months, getting new songs ready to hit the studio to record another album. I’m pretty excited about the leap I decided to take after realizing, out of the blue it seemed, that I might have enough music, enough stories I’m proud of to get this done.

It’s been six years since my last studio endeavor.

So much has happened since then. Six years ago I was on the road in my Chevy Lumina, Map Questing my way around the country, finding where I was going on the road, from small town to the occasional big city, all the while wishing in between that I could Map Quest the path my life was going to take.

Well, I imagine there’s a reason you don’t get a chance to see your future, to look into the horizon of your life and know what’s over that hill. Because I wouldn’t have believed what I saw.

I wouldn’t have believed that moving back to the ranch, to my childhood home in the middle of nowhere, with my husband and two mis-fit dogs would have put me smack dab in the middle of a world that provided me with the same inspiration it did when I was a little girl walking the hills.

I wouldn’t have guessed that traveling all over the country alone with my guitar, living in the mountains with my new husband, struggling through life lessons and “responsible adulthood” wouldn’t have been enough to inspire me those years in between. Not one decently honest song made it out of me during those years of wandering.

And then I wandered home and suddenly my pages filled up. All of the sudden I had stories to tell and things to show you and people to write.

And I was reminded that the writing was the best part. The writing is the discovery of myself and of the people walking about, living their own lives around me, minding their own business, that I wouldn’t have noticed until they nod their heads at me in the lyrics I’ve  jotted down in my disheveled notebook late at night while my world is sleeping.

I wouldn’t have believed it then, at 21 out on the road looking for a break, a place to stand with my guitar in my arms, an honest ear to listen, that seven years later at home, at the ranch, in the middle of the wild-west, I would find myself at the center of my music…and at the center of my world again.

So this morning as I pack up my fancy boots, a dress or two and my favorite scarf, getting ready to head out to play music for the weekend, I want to take a moment to explain to you why telling these stories is so important to me.

And why telling yours, or hearing it from someone else’s pen, might become important to you too.

Because a few months ago I was reminded. A few months ago I had unwrapped one of my songs after I was asked to play a piece of music to help tell the story of our booming community for one of the local news stations. So I told my story, standing on a busy Main Street as the camera was pointed in my direction, answering questions about changes and traffic and waiting in lines and what it means to have oil pumping from the earth in your backyard.

And what it means to have so many new faces in town.

I answered. And then I played my new song.  A song that hadn’t previously made it out of my tiny house in the buttes. A song about those faces, what they have given up to be here, where they came from, and how they found their way here, to a strange place or, back in a familiar place, back home, with nothing but hope at a chance for a better life.

I told you about it here.

I played my song, the segment aired, I went about my business building my own life out here in the middle of nowhere…in the middle of everything.

And then one quiet Thursday afternoon while I was sitting at my desk writing something or paying a bill, the phone rang.

“Hello”

“Yes, hello,” said a man on the other line with a kind voice tucked into a thick southern drawl. “I’m looking for the girl who sings that song ‘Boomtown'”

“That’s me,” I replied. “I wrote that.”

“Well, alright then. My wife heard you singing on the T.V. the other day and she recorded it for me so I could watch it when I got home. She said I had to hear it. She said I think this girl wrote this song about you.”

“Really?” I laughed, unsure of where this was going.

“Yeah, so I listened to it. And well, my name’s Donny, I’ve got a truck, I just got married and I’m  from Arkansas…”

“Really?” I had no other words, because, those words he spoke were my words…and they were in my song…

“We listened to it over and over and finally my wife thought I should give you a call…because, well, I’m wondering, did you write this song about me?”

I laughed again in surprise as this man who I had never met waited on the other line for my answer. A man who no doubt had a story to tell me, a story that I was going to learn a little bit more about about after I came up with my reply.

“Well, no Donny, I just made that man up. I figured he was out there, and well, oh my goodness, he is! ”

He laughed too as we talked more about the similarities he found to his life in the song, about how his company transferred him from Arkansas to North Dakota in the last year because that’s where the work is. We talked about his wife and his daughters and the struggle to find a place to live in this booming place.

We talked about how he likes it here.

I thanked him for his call.

I was so glad he called.

I was so glad I wrote his song, a song I will never again sing without hearing his voice on the other end of the line.

Listen to “Boomtown” and hear Donny’s story below.

I’ll be singing this song at the Fargo Theatre tomorrow as part of the Celebration of Women and their Music show. And I’ll keep you updated on the latest in my studio session and new music. I can’t wait for you to hear the new music, because, well, maybe my stories, Donny’s stories, our stories out here are pieces of your stories too.

Peace, Love and Music from the Ranch.

Dear Husband…

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Dear Husband,

Good morning.

As I write this I imagine you on your way to work in your red pickup, your warm cap pulled down over your ears, a little of your scruffy hair escaping out the sides. Or maybe you’re there already, digging into the jobs you’re good at. I lost track of how long it’s been since you found me buried under a pile of covers and pillows to kiss me good morning before the sun peeked over the buttes. I turned over and pulled those covers back up over my head, waiting for a more reasonable hour to rise from my dreams.

Husband, I have known you since you were a 12-year-old boy with hair just as unruly as it was this morning as you ran your callused hands through it. I knew you when your locker was six down from mine and you would walk with me to class. I knew you when your yellow lab, Rebel, was alive and young and he would pull you on your roller blades down the street. I was there when you heard your parents had to put him down.

I knew you when you wore your football jersey on our hometown field on Friday nights. I sat in the stands to watch you play and then waited for you at the gate after the game. I was there when you broke your ribs on the wrestling mat, I heard the stories about wrecking you bike, dislocating your shoulder in a three-wheeler accident, and the one about the fish-hook that somehow got lodged in your finger. I was there when you got that shiner senior year.

I lay next to you at night and trace your scars. I know where they came from, and I am thankful for that.

I am thankful that you picked up the phone to call me one summer evening only to find me crying on the other end of the line, catching my breath between whimpers to tell you about how I jumped off a small cliff at the lake and wrecked my ankle and my chance at making the A-squad basketball team. How was I to know that would be the first of a lifetime of comforting and level-headed conversations spent with you? How was I to know that hurting my ankle wasn’t the end of the world, but that conversation with you was the beginning of a life spent with a man who never hangs up?

A man who called again and then, when he learned to drive, drove thirty miles and way too fast every Sunday to the middle of nowhere to catch a girl with equally unruly hair mowing the lawn, painting the barn, riding a horse, digging in the garden or laying out in the summer sunshine.

Yes, husband, I knew you then. I knew you when your plans didn’t extend past Saturday night, but your future was blindingly bright. I knew you when your pants were too baggy, your music too loud and you thought you were invincible, bulletproof and incapable of breaking hearts. I was there when you learned it wasn’t true.

And, thankfully, you knew me. You knew that if you showed up, played chess with my little sister, talked guns with my dad and made my mother laugh that you would be able to take that trip every Sunday. You knew to tell me true things, because an honest man might not always win, but in the end, at least he is an honest man.

And so husband, here’s what I have to tell you today.

Each time I see you walking through that door after work or catch you cooking in our tiny kitchen, the smell of your soup filling my nostrils, each time I find you in your easy chair, feet kicked up after a day filled with work, I remember for a moment that boy I used to know and my heart starts beating the same way it did  when you would meet me at my locker, when I would pick up your evening phone calls or see your old Thunderbird pull into my parent’s driveway.

But there you are, a man. A good man who cooks and fixes things and doesn’t make a damn fuss when I cry over things there’s no use crying about. A man whose heart is planted here right next to mine in a place that grew me, that grew us, up and together and away and back again. Husband, I might not always run to the door when you swing it open, my hands might be busy, my head might be somewhere else. Love, I might not always take a moment to curl up on your lap when you are in your favorite chair, I might not bring us a blanket because there might not be time that evening to sit. My Man, I might not wrap my arms around you when you are stirring a soup or making a mess in our kitchen, but I should.

My 16 year-old head over heals self would.

Because all that 16 year-old-head-over-heals-self wanted in the whole world, all of the wishes she used up on stars that fell and clocks that turned to 11:11 were wishes for a lifetime spent with you–waking up to your kisses, falling asleep in your arms, eating your cooking and building our home.

Yes, that 16-year-old-self had some things right, but she mostly knew nothing at all.

She mostly took a huge risk with her wishes spent on a teenage boy with unruly hair and pants that didn’t fit right. She knew nothing about life really. Nothing about the things that happen between those morning kisses and evening meals.

So here’s what your 28-year-old-head-over-heals-wife has to say to you today.

Thank you. Thank you for the every day good-morning kisses, yes, but mostly thank you for fighting with me without ever raising your voice or your fist, pushing me to stand up for myself and never hanging up on me no matter how many times I’ve done it to you. Thanks for staying true to yourself no matter how I push and for understanding that there are some things that you can’t change about me (like my addiction to shoes) and for not giving up on the things that are worth changing (like my lack of self-confidence and tendency to leave the back hatch of my car open over night). Thank you for never walking away in an argument, never sleeping on the couch and for always calling before you leave town to see if I need anything from the grocery store.

Thank you for fixing the things I break.

I break a lot of things.

And thank you for making me pick out and purchase my own car and schedule my own oil changes but always coming to my rescue when my tire is flat or the thing doesn’t start.

Thank you for coming with me to ride horses and for patiently teaching me, every day, how to properly use our complicated T.V. remote.

At 16 when I wished for you forever, I didn’t know that these things were important. I didn’t think about who would do the taxes or build our house, unclog the hair from the drain or clean up the puppy poop on the floor. I thought all you needed was love and affection. Those things you gave me, so I thought the other stuff came easy and fell into place like the things that happen in the “happily ever after” section no one ever bothers writing into Disney Movies.

I was wrong. It can be hard. All of the love and affection in the world can’t pay the heating bill,  help you decide who unloads the dishwasher at night, make the house remodel itself or cure a sickness while you’re out basking in the glow of one another.

No, it can’t.

But I am so grateful this Valentines Day, husband, that I was wise enough at 16 to make those wishes for a boy who would become a young man with a ring who asked me to be his family.

I’m glad I took the risk.

I am happy I said yes.

And I am happy I have you, on Sunday, and every day in between.

Are you warm yet?

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Uff da, it’s kinda cold here in Fargo.  It’s normal for February, but with all of the 50 degree temperatures we’ve had in January, we’ve been spoiled and confused about what season we’re living in. Which makes today’s -32  windchill feels a little mean.

Yes, today in Fargo it’s winter indeed and I am happy I remembered to pack my giant sweater.

But we’re in the middle of February and even though the light at the end of the winter tunnel is approaching I think it’s time for a little reminder of what this land looks like with a change of clothes.

Because even a mild winter can feel long up here. So we need to be reminded that all that brown and white…

will eventually turn green.

That snowflakes

turn to raindrops…

and the frozen creeks will melt

and babble and sing again.

And the bare trees will bring fruit that tastes sweet on our lips,

The sun will once again flush our pale cheeks,

and strip the thick coats from the back of the beasts.

Creatures will emerge,

flowers will bloom again,

and the sun will soon rise on a new season.

There. Are you warm yet?

Magic frost…

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A glorious weekend settled in here at the ranch, confirming my theory that  everything’s better with frosting. So it was my delight to wake up and find that on Saturday morning  everything was frosted.

Finally.


This is my favorite winter weather phenomenon, but with the unseasonably warm temperatures we’ve been enjoying I haven’t seen much of it lately.  So on Saturday I couldn’t wait to get out in it. I was like a kid on Christmas, hurrying up with my chores, eating my breakfast fast, chugging down my coffee and changing out of my stretchy pants as soon as I jumped out of bed…all very unlikely activities for a lazy Saturday woman like me.

But I couldn’t help it, I went to bed in a land of gold and brown and woke up to a winter wonderland outside my window.

So I had to get out there and become that kid in the beanie with the ball on the top that you see in those classic winter paintings in museums. I felt like that kid. I looked like that kid.

I was that kid.

So I had to get a little closer, to touch it, notice its sparkle, to exist in it…

kick it off of the grass, let it fall on my head, get down close,

brush it off of the horses’ backs, see it on the cat’s whiskers,

the dogs’ noses.

Oh, it’s amazing what a little coating of white can do to a landscape. It turns an ordinary scene into a winter fairytale. It puts a little magic in the old red barn,

softening its rusty nails

and stray wires.

The old boards and windows welcome those out in this fog to peek in and explore…

come in and stay warm.

And the landscape turns mysterious as I climb to the top of the nearest hill to catch a glimpse of our new world, only to be welcomed with a limited view.

A view that turns me curious and sends me over the next hill and then the next to see what might be there…as if overnight, given the dark and the fog, the rocks took their chance to move and switch places,

the trees held hands and grew taller,

the dry brown flowers bloomed,

and the wire fences repaired themselves.

I couldn’t help it, I kept walking, because anything is possible in this kind of quiet, in this kind of weather. It’s a new season! And it could last for weeks, for days, or only a few hours. So I couldn’t wait. I needed to see what the bittersweet looked like coated in white…

And if the bull berries looked just as delicious…

And as I walked along the pink road that gently rolled into the low hanging cloud I was living under I held my breath and disappeared into the quiet calm.

With frost hanging on my eyelashes, coating the hair that had escaped from my wool cap, I let out a sigh and wished, just for a moment, that the sun would wait…

Because there was so much more to see over that hill, so much quiet to take in, so many ordinary things wearing new clothes and looking fabulous…and I wanted to stay out there and forever live in that painting.

A painting that with the warmth of the sun,

was sure to sparkle and shine, a contrast of vibrant blue and white and beautiful…

only to melt away,

leaving us waiting for winter’s the next inspiration…

Community in a time of change…

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I interrupt the regular programming of walking the hills, chasing Little Man, scolding the pug and cooking with my husband to  talk for a moment about community. I want to talk about belonging somewhere, calling it home, embracing its flaws and standing up for a place…taking care of it.

No matter where you live in this country you’ve probably caught bits and pieces about the changes that are occurring in Western North Dakota due to new technology that allows us to extract oil from the Bakken and other large reservoirs that lay 10,000 feet below the surface of the land…the land where our roads wind, our children run, our farmers cultivate, our schools and shops sit. The land we call community. The land we call home.

For the people who exist here oil is not a new word. Neither is the Bakken. My county is celebrating its 60th year of oil discovery soon and its county seat isn’t even 100 years old. So you can imagine many long time residents of the small “boomtowns” you’re hearing about have had their hand in the industry at one point or another in their lifetime. Some have stories about finishing high school or returning home from college and working in the oil fields in the 1970s, moving up in industry, making their place, seeing it through the rough times and coming out on the other side as leaders and veterans of the industry.

Veterans of the industry like the ranchers and farmers in this area working to exist and tend to their land while the search for oil below their wheat fields and pastures carries on around them. During rough times, times when cattle prices were low, or the rain didn’t fall, some of those landowners have taken a second job driving truck or pumping for oil to make ends meet, to pay off some debt, to get their kids through college.

These people have served as members of the school board, city council, 4-H leaders and musicians in local bands. They have helped build up their main streets, keeping small businesses in business and the doors of the schools struggling with declining enrollment open. They’ve coached volleyball and cheered on their hometown football teams. They’ve helped a neighbor with his fencing, brought their kids along on cattle drives, drove the school bus to town and back every weekday, filled the collection plate at church and then helped rebuild its steeple.

These people continue this way to this day and I expect many in this generation, my generation, will be telling similar stories when it’s all said and done…stories that start with back breaking, 80 hour a week job and end in a life made.

A kind of life we are all living out here surrounded right now by oil derricks and pumping units and wheat fields and new stop lights and cattle and badlands. And I know you’re hearing about it. It’s big news in a tough economy–an oasis of jobs,  opportunity and money in what some have come to refer to as “The Wild West” or “The Black Gold Rush.” It’s a story of hope, yes, but what we really like is the drama don’t we? We like to hear about the guy who came to North Dakota on a prayer only to live in his car in the Wal-Mart parking lot while he hunted for a job that allowed him to send money home to his wife and kids, or build a house, or a booming business. We like to talk over the dinner table about how the bars are full and the lines are long at the post office, about how a new building is going up and how the new stop lights and three lane highway is not doing enough to control the traffic.

We talk about how our lives are changing. I have been trying to wrap my mind around what this means for the place I have and always will call home. But the bottom line is that without this change, I probably wouldn’t be here to contemplate it at all.

Yesterday I worked with a small group of elementary children who are full of life and love and energy and ideas…and nearly all of them have moved with their parents to this town within the last couple years. They come from all different backgrounds, from several states away. They come with ideas and insight into a world that extends outside this small and growing town where they now live.  Some of them have left the only house they have known behind, some have left pets and horses they used to ride, wide open space and friends to live in a new place, a place much different from where they came from. A place that has work, but doesn’t have an abundance of houses their parents can chose from with big back yards where they can play.

When asked where they are from they will tell you Wyoming, California, Montana or Washington.

When asked about their home, they say it is here.

Change? Compared to these children, we know nothing of it.

Because last night I returned to the ranch after dropping off the last student only to pull on my tennis shoes and drive down the road with Husband to meet up with neighbors to play a few games of volleyball. And there we were at a small, rural recreation center surrounded by some of the community members who raised funds to build the place nearly fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago when the pace was slower, but the most important values were there.

The value of having a space to get together to play a game, to craft, to hold meetings and New Years Eve parties and baby showers. In that very gym where I skidded across the floor last night to hit a volleyball my neighbor passed to me was the very gym I served pancakes in as part of a youth group fundraiser when I was twelve years old. It was where I gathered with friends and family after a community member’s funeral. It was where I attended 4-H meetings and put on talent shows with my friends. And it’s where I’m going to craft club next Tuesday. Yes, nearly fifteen years after that talent show this is still my meeting place and I still get to call all of the teachers, ranchers, accountants, stay at home moms, business owners and yes, oil industry professionals who are running after fly volleyballs, laughing and joking and skidding across the floor, my neighbors. 

But you know what I need to remember? Those students and their families and the people who are on their way here to look for a better life?  They are my neighbors too. And they have a lot to teach us.

So if you ask me how life has changed, I might tell you about the traffic. I might tell you how there are a couple oil wells behind my house and how that was hard to get used to. I will tell you about the new business coming to the area and how we now have stop lights in town. I will tell you about the challenges. And then I will tell you about the people who are keeping their fingers on the pulse of this development and discovery. I will tell you about those who are asking the right questions about our environment and making the tough decisions about our infrastructure in order to better accommodate new students in our schools and new residents of our towns so that they feel they belong here the same way I belong.

They are on the front lines welcoming visitors to the museum, taking the time to ask questions at the grocery store, spending their retirement as County Commissioners, City Council and Chamber of Commerce members. I will tell you about the people who are not only sticking it out during these growing pains, but who are working every day to make their home a better home for the next generation.

Yes, right now our community is overwhelmed. Whether or not we saw this coming, whether or not we thought we were prepared, many days for many people it feels like the phone calls, the needs that can’t be met, the questions that don’t have answers yet, are overwhelming…and it’s tempting for many to pack up and leave a place they don’t feel they recognize anymore.

But here’s what I’m proposing to those living in the middle of the Wild West and to those in any community really:

Stand up for it. Go to meetings. Ask questions. Play Volleyball together. Exist in it. Don’t be afraid to be frustrated, but then do something. Anything. Invite a new person to your quilting club. Put on a talent show. Volunteer. Attend a basketball game. Mentor a student. Instead of complaining about the trash in the ditches, get your friends together to pick it up. Set a good example. Set your standards and then be prepared to put your muscles into it.


If it’s your community, make it your priority. Because it’s your community and it’s worth loving and fighting to take the frustrations and turn them into solutions. To turn the complaining into action. To shift from fear and uncertainty to a place of positive energy and open-mindedness.

It isn’t  easy, but those who have seen this through, those who have walked the main streets when the stores are full only to turn around to see them empty, those who built that school, owned that store, lived in that house for 50 years, they will tell you, not only is it worth the effort, it’s our responsibility.

Want to keep up with what’s happening in Western North Dakota and my hometown?
Visit: mckenziecounty.net for the latest in news and progress and the North Dakota Petroleum Council for information on North Dakota’s oil industry.


On a green January day…

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Well, we are nearing the end of January and outside my window the sun is trying desperately to peek through the blanket of clouds and I feel, at 45 degrees, at any minute this brown, damp landscape is going to erupt in colors of green and orange and pink and purples.

What a weird winter it has been. And when I say weird, I also mean a little wonderful.

But I’m wonderfully freaked out.

Remember last year? Remember the countless times we were snowed in? Remember my run in with the FedEx Man in a FedEx Van who, by the grace of Martha, I was able to pull out of my yard in order avoid an awkward afternoon of coffee in this little house in the middle of nowhere with a man who delivers my boots.

Yes, last winter we snowshoed, we sledded, I made snow angles and a snow man. I let the snow man wear my hat and my scarf, because, well, I was wearing a hat and scarf.

There were drifts that reached up over my head, which made driving into our yard feel like driving in the tunnel of a snow fort. I began contemplating purchasing cross country skis to give myself another option of getting around the ranch.

It was a damn winter wonderland.

But what we have this year people is a damn phenomenon and I’m not quite sure where I am and what they’ve done with winter , but it sure is keeping me on my toes.

I mean, there we were hunkered down after a stretch of sub, sub, zero temperatures only to wake up to rain and the smell of spring in the air. In another winter in another time this type of weather would send the snow melting in the coulees and me running to creek beds to float sticks and homemade boats.

But today the ice on the creek has melted just enough for the dogs to grab a lick, the banks brown and muddy,

red bare stems poking up from the ice,

orange berries dangling from twiggy branches,

golden dried wildflowers.

These are the colors of this North Dakota winter.  And the feeling is all around poky.

And this is disarming to me, because it my mind, winter is supposed to be soft.

I am all out of sorts in this in-between, schizophrenic season. So yesterday while the boys were working on our new house, I skipped work and took a cross-country hike to momma’s on a full out search for any signs of winter. I needed to find something worth snuggling into, something that beckons me to come and lay down in it, something that sparkles.

But what I found was not what I was expecting really.

See as I followed the deer trails through the trees toward the creek, I tried to recall if I’ve ever been able to hike through these coulees so late in the winter. A walk this long through this much rise and fall in terrain last year would have induced near death huffing and puffing for sure, or at least a bloody nose. But yesterday, after leaning in to examine the thorns that stuck out from the blueberries bushes, the bare flowers, dried up and bending in the breeze without their petals, the dry grass that crackled as the wind pushed through its stems, something else caught my eye.

Under that dry grass, at the base of the oak trees, clinging to the rocks in the frozen creek was green, vivid, wonderful, lush, bright green. What is usually buried under a thick layer of white were remnants of a warmer season coated in the drizzle of this unusual January weather.

Fuzzy moss.

Silky grass.

Furry leaves.

And the more I looked, the closer I got to the ground floor of my world, the more green I found. Soon I was stripping off my wool cap, untying my neckerchief, folding back the flaps on my mittens as the uncharacteristic color of winter transported me and I was convinced I was living in a warm May day.

Oh yes, the creek was still frozen on the top, the dogs spinning out as they chased after a squirrel who too, was awoken from his deep sleep by the warming up.

But underneath their furry paws the creek was following them, running too while it can run… on a green January day.

Oh, I could have stayed at the bottom of that creek bed nestled among the birch trees and towering oaks all afternoon, holding my wood cap in my hands and shoving my mittens in my pockets. The fallen oak leaves were a warm blanket covering the cool ground,  the moss on the trees invited me to touch, the biting breeze was blocked by the deep banks the creek has cut and the trees who make those banks their home.

Oh, yes. I found soft.

I found soft on a snowless winter day where, on gifts of days like these, if you look close,  under all that brown and red and orange, and frozen gray

the earth waits patiently for it’s chance to shine again.

Instigator…Idiot…Pug…

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If I were a pug with one eye I would tread lightly in this world, understanding that my life is hanging on the fact that my remaining eye, well, remains.

If I were a pug I would have put pen to paper in my journal to detail each gory detail about how, exactly, I lost said eye. I would have made a special note on how it is best to stay in the yard for the love of safety and even though some creatures look fluffy and cuddly and similarly built, looks can be deceiving…and unbearably poky.

I would have written that down for sure. Then I would have underlined it and placed it right next to a sketch of the spiky animal who caused such misery in the first place.

Now I know if I were the pug I wouldn’t have opposable thumbs, but I would find a way. I would talk to someone. I would ask them to remind me every night before I kenneled up or snuggled on the blanket on the couch to tell me the story about how I approached a porcupine for a cordial discussion about politics only to come away with one of those needles he wears as fur poking out of the middle of my eyeball…

My favorite eyeball…

Yes, if I were the pug this traumatic event would be burned into my brain, because what followed was misery, three trips to the vet, stitches, drugs and several desperate attempts to jump out of the cone that was placed over my head to protect me from myself.

If I were the pug I would have not forgotten.

But alas, I am not the pug. I am a me, a woman who puts rolls in the oven to rise at 9 am only to discover that at 7 pm after the oven is adequately pre-heated and ready for the evening casserole, that the rolls I had completely forgotten about are done, saran wrap and all. Surprise!

No, I am not the pug. I am me, a woman who forgets things in her oven, but who will never, under any circumstances, forget how an injury occurred. I’m on my tenth or twelfth diary folks.

But the pug?

Well, the pug is the pug and the pug just happens to:

a. have a short memory
b. have balls of steel (those balls, of course, being metaphorical, because well…)
c. be an idiot
d. all of the above

And after yesterday’s events I believe I have enough information to answer the above multiple-choice question correctly.
Because as I held the stocky, determined, incredibly strong for his size, pathetic pug on the floor of my kitchen while husband worked to remove what I have documented as the third round of porcupine quills the animal has endured in his short lifespan, I grabbed my pencil and circled:
d. all of the above.



Now I admit there should have been signals that this animal’s intelligence is questionable. I admit I should have figured this was bound to happen again after witnessing how much gusto he put into chasing that raccoon off the deck…twice. And the rabbit that showed up, umm, not living, to my doorstep? Well, I’m pretty sure he didn’t commit suicide. 

So you see, I could blame last night’s incident on the lack of an eye, like maybe the pirate pug couldn’t properly assess the situation he was getting himself into. Like maybe he was blindsided… But as Pops pointed out, the fact that quills were poking out of his squishy nose right below the good eye, indicates, well he at least saw it coming. The quills inside his mouth finish the story.

The story that ends with the pug being labeled not only “idiot” but “instigator.”

Instigator.

Terminator.

Eliminator.

Dumbass.

Because even now as I type this I hear that shithead barking ferociously at some poor creature up in a tree or down in a coulee somewhere…

Yup, now he’s running around in circles down below the corrals, the lab on his tail, following the scent of some threatening vermin.

I just got in from screaming at him to come back, but he must have lost his hearing in that last porcupine fight. I swear to Martha, if I find myself pulling quills from that snorty snout again tonight he’s up for grabs.

Adoption.

A pug orphan.

Because even after a half-hour, four-way fight between me, husband, the pug and those damn porcupine quills, a fight the pug was sure was going to be the death of him; a fight that found him whimpering, bleeding, shaking, and begging us to unhand him; a fight that ended with a gallant victory by a strong man with pliers and a stunned and feeling-much-better-already-thank-you-very- much black lap dog curled up on the foot of the couch sighing deep, grateful, breaths of relief, it is quite clear that the third time is not going to be a charm.

When the pug gets in from his latest life-threatening chase, I’ll let you know what I think about the forth. And then I’ll give you the number of the mile marker where you can pick him up if you would like to take on the task of saving his life…day after day…

Cause I tell you, it would be my luck that this is the only dog in the history of the universe that has the potential to live forever… Despite the tiny brain, big balls, and all the odds.

Now, where did I put his safety goggles?

When your nostrils freeze together…

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If you live up here where January can be a real bitch sometimes, you’ve probably noticed weirdly familiar things happening to you and the bodies of those around you.

I say weirdly familiar because it’s been awhile, but you are suddenly very aware that you’ve felt like this before, sometime, in a frozen land far, far away…

Like the sensation of your  nostrils freezing together when you step outside to start your car and take your first breath …and then that other sensation of…what is it? Oh yeah, fuming rage. Fuming rage that sends steam boiling out of your ears and thaws out your icy nostrils when you discover that your car won’t start.

And when you stomp back into warm house, visible steam escapes out the open door as you rubbing your hands together while blowing your breath into them to help get the blood flowing again. And as you holler to your husband the news about the damn piece of crap car and you could use his help here, he informs you that Cliff the weatherman just reported that it is 14 degrees below zero out there.

You scoff at the thought. And as you start to spew the following phrases like, “So what?!”  That’s not that cold.”  “My car has started in those types of temperatures before.”  “The world is out to get me this morning.” and “Now would be a good time for a tropical vacation,” your sweet dear, husband, whom you’ve cut off in mid-sentence declaring war on the shitty Mazda you’ve been meaning to trade-in for a year now through partially frozen lips and snot dripping down your now thawed out nose, he politely interrupts you to ask you to guess what Cliff says it feels like out there with wind chill.

“35 below zero,” he says as he fills his giant coffee mug, not waiting for your guess.

“Damn you windchill,” you reply as you strip off your coat and contemplate whether the world would come to an end if you spent the rest of the day living it from underneath the covers.

What -38 with windchill looks like.

Are you with me here North Dakotans and Minnesotans who are currently under the Red Flag warning of an, and I quote, “Extreme Cold Warning”?

Insert sound of teeth chattering....

Yeah, they’re not kidding either. Yesterday husband came home and informed me that as he was walking outside at work the bottoms of his boots literally froze.

Yup. Like crackle, snap, pop went the soles of his supposed to be extreme temperature gear.

Wow.

I don’t know about you, but all I can say is, we knew this was coming didn’t we? I mean, if we thought we were going to get through one full month of January without a couple days of “freeze your toes, nose, nipples, and ass off” cold, then we were all living in a fantasy world now weren’t we? A fantasy world where North Dakota in the winter could possibly be warmer than some parts of Texas in the same season.

It’s possible friends, but not for long.

So here we are, freezing our toes, nose, nipples and asses off. And for those of you who have ventured out from under the covers in the last few days to get to work, bring the kids to school, pick up milk, grab some soup, or fill up gas, to you I say, you’re looking sexy in your furry hat, wool scarf pulled up over your nose, leather mittens, giant boots, and your hoodie under your fleece jacket, under your down coat that hits just below the knees. Really, that’s a ravishing look on you.

I'm too sexy for these goggles, too sexy for these goggles...

For those of you who are sipping Mai Tais down in a place that has a palm tree or two, or sand, or cactuses or temperatures above forty degrees, I would like say two things:

1. I must have missed your call/text/email/written note inviting me to your house for the month of January because I haven’t yet received a call/text/email/written note inviting me to your house for the month of January. Which seems strange, because I am almost certain you said you were going to send it.

and

2.  Forget it, I am sure you sent it. I mean, we’re best friends right?  Get out the beach towels and the Speedos then because once I get my car started I’m on my way!

Until then me and the other durable and somewhat weather resistant northerners will be performing the following rituals to get us through this cold snap. Rituals like:

  • Running from the nearest heated building to our cars, heads down while holding our breath, shoving our hands in our pockets and jumping around like school-girls who have to pee as we fumble for our keys.
  • Greeting one another on the street, in the grocery store and at work with the following phrases: “Cold enough for ya?” “Stayin’ warm?” “Chilly out there isn’t it?” and my favorite “mmmwwwhhhhaaaa, shit, it’s cooolllddd out thheerrre!!!”
  • Pausing in the entryways of buildings for a few moments while our eyeballs thaw out
  • Sniffing. Constantly.
  • Asking our neighbors/friends/colleagues/children/mothers/grandfathers/sisters/people we’ve never met before if they have their hats/boots/scarves/giant blankets/fully charged cell phones/winter survival kits before they head out the door and into their cars
  • Dressing like this

  • Dressing our dogs like this

    Ok, this one might only apply to me...

  • Wondering if we’ll ever regain feeling in our toes/nose/nipples/ass. Ever.
  • Squinting before me make the forbidden decision to remove the duct tape husband has put over the thermostat controls along with a strict “do not touch” message in magic marker. I mean, you’re only going to nudge it up a degree or two more…(Ok, this one may also only apply to me…)
  • Taking photos of the temperature gauge on our vehicles or outside our homes and sending them to friends who we are sure will share in our astonishment.
  • Booking tropical vacations
Yup. It’s cold.
Damn cold.

So I’ll be seeing ya down south!