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.
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…
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.
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.
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.
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.
I have been having some issues this past month and I decided it’s high time I let you all in on one of my little quirks. Because I think it is one of my duties to make you all feel better about yourselves and life in general and what better way to give someone the gift of self-assurance than to flat out confess that I might be a little crazy.
I can't help it, like GaGa, I was born this way...
See, you feel a bit more normal already, don’t you?
Anyway, I may have mentioned in passing that I have a few addictions. One of them is coffee,
Like I said, it started at a young age...
Another is bagels, and, well, get me in a room with puppies and I am in danger of an overcommitment similar to that of the Megan character in Bridesmaids.
Yeah. 9 puppies in a van. That would be me.
Look at me, I'm possessed....
Obsession. We all have it in us. Sometimes it’s a great thing. Sometimes obsession pushes us to test our limits of capabilities and finds us climbing uncharted mountains, speaking foreign languages, running marathons or, you know, at the Grammys or something.
But sometimes it ain’t so pretty. Like when you snap out of a chocolate chip cookie induced coma to find that you have been watching a marathon of “Dance Moms” on a Sunday afternoon, for like four hours straight. The realization that you may never get those brain cells back is a tough pill to swallow. And the realization that there are actually women in this world who are that awful…and they get their own t.v. show…can also be something that puts you at risk of a late night call to your therapist.
Yeah, I’ve had my fare share of obsessions. From my addiction to blending things, the semester in college where I couldn’t fall asleep without watching re-runs of the Cosby show on TV Land and the six months I spent determined to find myself a pair of the original Zubas…in my size…in pink and black…just…like…I…used…to…wear.
Needless to say I had to wean myself off of Ebay the same way I had to quit Theo.
It was painful, but necessary.
Yes, I have been known to go overboard. You witnessed it a few months back when you caught me sitting at my kitchen table in my sweatpants, crazy eyed and determined to craft something. It goes wwwaaayyy back people. Back to my days of 4-H and wildflower hunting and learning to ice skate on the frozen stock dam, practicing for hours so that one day it might be possible for me to compete in the Olympics.
I am delusional. But in those moments, the moments I am spinning on ice and getting ready to use my toe pick to launch into the triple axel I am so utterly confident I can land, I believe myself. And then I crack my tail bone on the ice and decide that perhaps I should get back to latch hooking.
Yeah, I’ve been known to possess the not so productive, not so calorie burning or brain-cell friendly obsessions in my lifetime. And I will admit that not many of them have turned out the way I had intended.
But some have. Like my this one right here:
Ummm, hmmmm, that turned out alright sisters.
Yup. I am the woman who finds something she likes for breakfast and then eats it for breakfast like….every….single….morning. When I have a favorite menu item at a favorite restaurant I order it…every…single…time. Like a song? I press repeat. And then I press it again. Then I buy the album and NEVER take it out of the CD player until I find another album to torture my friends and family with for months at a time. Seriously, I have literally worn out CDs….
And I am blaming the advancements in technology. See, it used to be out here in the wilderness you were protected. You didn’t have access to a shopping mall, so maybe you wore the same boots every day and didn’t know any different. You were happy. You fell in love with the music that you heard coming through the radio on drives in the tractor or in the feed pickup.
All seven of them.
And you were happy humming to George Strait. George Strait is the man. And Zubas were only a fond memory. A memory that had absolutely no potential of becoming a reality again because there was NO SUCH THING AS EBAY!!!
But now I’m screwed. I have high speed (well, high speed for middle of nowhere) internet and I just found out that Pinterest was invented AND I NEED FURNITURE AND LIGHT FIXTURES AND I NEED TO CRAFT THOSE LIGHT FIXTURES OUT OF RECYCLED WINE BOTTLES AND THE FURNITURE OUT OF BARNWOOD AND PILLLOWS I HAVE TO LEARN TO SEW FROM SCRATCH! IDEAS! I’VE FOUND ALL THE IDEAS!!!
And then, my little sister came home and introduced me to Spotify, an online music sharing site that gives you access to any artist and all of their albums. So I downloaded it and have been crying in my office at work for like three days in a row as I listen to Lori McKenna‘s new album on repeat for eight hours.
I mean, who writes lyrics like this?
I was just a little girl When your hand brushed by my hand And I will be an old woman Happy to have spent my whole life with one man”
Who is this woman and why is she singing about my life?
Can we be friends? Lori? Lori? Can you text me? I’m dying. Sniff. Sniff. Sob.
But here’s the worst thing of all. Something I’ve known is out there for years. Something that has fed an already brewing obsession. Something that allows for that obsession to be delivered to my door with a click of the button. Something that is filling my already to capacity closets to the brim, inhibiting me from making wardrobe decisions, has me standing in front of the mirror in jeans on one leg, and then the other… It’s keeping me up late at night.
It’s costing me hundreds of dollars.
And the worst thing of all is that I can’t quit. They don’t make a patch, they don’t have a help line, I can’t call my momma cause she has the same problem…my sister is hooked too. It might be hereditary. It might be the devil…if the devil was fashionable and sexy….
Yes…you guessed it. It’s online boot shopping…and I need one of the following in every color.
I need fancy boots for singing, practical boots for riding, comfy boots for walking (because these boots are made for walking), boots that look like slippers, slippers that look like boots…
I need boots that go over your jeans, and ones that go under, and a pair that do both just in case. I need high heeled boots and mid heeled boots and well, normal heeled boots. And I need high heels that look like boots.
I need snow boots for trudging, and snow boots for shopping, and muck boots for slopping around in the shit in the corrals.
I need hiking boots to climb the hills and boots that go in my snow shoes. I need hunting boots. I need cowboy boots, and sexy cowboy boots, and boots that kinda look like cowboy boots, but aren’t.
I need hippy boots and professional boots that go with the suit I might wear some day. I need square toe, round toe, pointy toe and the ones that are kinda square and kinda pointy…
There out there…they are. I’ve seen them all!!!! Mwahahahahaha….. (*whisper* hhheeelpp….meee…)
I’ll just be a little longer… Can you hand me another chocolate chip cookie?
Weekends around the ranch, no matter how well intentioned and thought out, are usually pretty unpredictable. Where some families have a nice and lovely routine that includes pancakes in the morning, taking kids to practices, catching a movie and maybe going out to eat with the family on Sunday after church, around here we try to keep our plan simple so as to not disappoint: wake up when the sun gets up and see if we can’t get something done between the hours of sunrise and sunset.
Sometimes we rock it. Sometimes we accomplish our goals of moving cows, mowing the lawn, fixing fence, taking down the little Christmas tree, taking a walk, nailing something to something else and feeding all the damn cats in time to cook supper together and kick back in our respective spots on our comfy furniture with our feet up before hitting the sack.
Other times our biggest accomplishment of the weekend is getting out of our sweatpants.
And usually those Saturdays come after the Friday that the band plays in town.
Uff. Da.
Because when the band plays in town we don’t roll back to the ranch until 2 am.
And, well, you know what I say about 2am? Well, usually nothing because usually I’m sleeping. But if I happen to see it, I scold it. Because nothing good happens after midnight…and nobody is beautiful at 2 am…especially not yours truly.
I’ve known this to be true even during my stint as a younger woman who may or may not have been the only one caught sleeping at the completely innocent and organized after prom party.
2 am and I never got along.
But making that drive to town to listen to the band play “Peaceful Easy Feeling” and “Can’t You See” and John Prine songs that make me think about dancing the two step is worth the inevitable next day spent shuffling around the house in sweatpants. Especially because one of my favorite things in the world is singing with these men, my pops, our neighbor, and two or sometimes three of the greatest musicians around.
Oh, and then there’s the talent that just might saunter through the back door sometimes, like the squeeze box player from New Orleans, the fiddle player from the badlands or the base player from the next town.
The music is always good.
And the next day after I have pulled off my boots and washed the smoke out of my hair, no matter the hour we arrived home to our bed, I am always a little rejuvenated, despite that my blood-shot eyes might indicate otherwise.
See, when I was younger and looking over the edge of the nest, waiting to take that inevitable leap, I have to tell you, I think I was realistic about how much I really knew about life. And that’s why I was scared to death. But the few things I did know, like what it felt like to be loved, which direction my car needed to be facing to get me home, how to make a killer bowl of ramen noodles and the fact that leaving this place was inevitable were a good basis for what I now know will be a lifetime spent learning how I might exist here with purpose.
Which brings me to my point. I have one, I think. See, when I left home ten years ago I don’t remember being too delusional about life, although I am sure it snuck its way in there at times as I imagined myself singing on big stages, selling at least enough CDs to pay the bills or writing a best-selling novel. No, I didn’t see myself as a CEO of a company or a big PR Executive even though that might have been the direction my professors were leading me. I didn’t dream of climbing to the top of big mountains, but I would have taken you up on your offer. And I didn’t picture myself with 4.5 children, a white picket fence and a casserole in the oven, although I was open to it if it happened to turn out that way
Casseroles weren’t something I dreamed of then.
But when the clock would hit that magical 11:11 at night, something that I always found so thrilling to catch, do you know what I wished for every time?
A happy life.
Yes. Even though I had no idea what that meant, what my version of a happy life was, I wished for it.
And so here we are a good nine days into the new year and I’m not going to lie, it’s been a tough nine days around here. Because it turns out even my safe-haven, even the rolling hills of the ranch and dreams coming true can’t protect us from pain and uncertainties that can come speeding down the pink road. But it has put this question on my mind as I roll out of bed, trying to move through the fleeting thoughts that come with knowing there are things I may never have and people in my life who may never have the happy life I speak of.
And as I talk to friends and family who might be hurting or reaching for something that they are continually denied or failing to see themselves, to really see themselves, I tell them: try every day to live honestly…and be true.
And so I tell myself.
But what does that mean? Really? What am I saying?
Ok, well, let me bring it back around to those men who play guitar and sing while closing their eyes tight on Saturday nights at the bar in their hometown. Or the woman who gets up in the morning before her children, before her husband, just as the sun is peeking over the horizon to lace up her running shoes and spend an hour propelling her body over the earth, sucking the morning air into her middle-aged lungs. Or the father who sits patiently with his teenage son to teach him the art of wood-turning, the artist who sees the sunrise as a painting, sees a face in the clouds or the single man who finds himself committed to conquering fears and the adrenaline rush that comes with skiing down the face of a snow packed mountain.
What do they have in common? It’s not the result of the painting, the physique that comes with the run, the money made on the piece of art or the applause after the song is over.
No.
It’s the beauty of the wood discovered underneath the bark and the conversation with his son that he might not have had otherwise. It’s giving herself the chance at a morning quiet enough to hear her own heart beat out in the open space she loves, it’s taking notice that the world is the masterpiece and the understanding that the end result can’t possibly give her as much joy as the process of creating it.
It’s singing out loud next to your father and his best friends for the sake of singing. For the sake of committing to doing something that you love with people you care about.
Because in order to live honestly you must know yourself and the tools you need to cope in a world that can be downright unpredictable and overwhelming and sometimes unbelievably sad.
It’s knowing there are things inside you that need to be nourished, things that need to be shared with others, created, or kept safely next to you on your bedside table. And it’s trying your damnedest to find out what those things are and doing them, even if it means staying up until 2 am.
And so it’s worth it sometimes (if you have at least one pair of clean underwear left) to let the laundry wait until you get back from your walk, finish that painting, go to your yoga class, visit a friend…
Because the secret to living honestly, staying true and living a happy life, just might be how you spend your weekend….
Don’t judge me ok. But when I get a chance to hang with my baby nephew, the first thing I do (after getting a smile and a hug) is dress him as a mini version of an adult character, like a cowboy or a hunter or an extreme athlete who wears Under Armor gear and then head outside.
Yeah, there may be some past evidence of this tendency….
Anyway, Little Man loves it outside. And with the unseasonably warm temperatures this week the little guy didn’t even need a puffy coat to enjoy the sunshine, barn animals and a big boy ride on the 4-wheeler.
Which reminds me, I need to get him a pair of goggles to go with that flapper hat. I think it would really complete the outfit don’t you?
Other than that, we’ve been busy you know. So busy that the kid is currently snoring, exhausted from a morning of growing teeth, making his aunt gag with the giant surprise he left in his pants: twice, and you know, working on the walking thing.
Yup, today Little Man discovered how to stand up without any aid from a piece of furniture and propel himself forward on his feet. You know, a little thing we refer to as walking. And if I ever had doubt about why parents get so insane over things like children pooping on the potty and saying “DaDa” or “Shoe” (which not surprisingly, was my first word) I will never question it again.
Because when this little phenomenon occurred (one I have been nagging him about for months) this morning in my momma’s kitchen, I nearly spontaneously combusted with pride. When the reoccurring single step he usually takes from the standing position turned into two and then three, the look on that Little Man’s face was priceless. I screamed. I clapped. I did a back flip.
I called President Obama.
Hearing the commotion from shower stall, my momma came rushing in from the bathroom in her towel, and, well, she did the same thing, joining me in crazy company.
And then she called Oprah and asked her if she would like the exclusive interview with this wondrous kid.
It was magic.
And it hasn’t happened again for a good three hours, despite all of my coaxing.
Ah, well.
And ah, to be a toddler.
Watching Little Man discover the world, grab the cat by the tail, and snuggle into his gramma’s lap opens up a whole new world for us here on the ranch. One that has been plumb full of adult wisdom and responsibilities for years. But when Little Man comes down the road backward in his car seat and reaches his arms up to us, his way of asking to be pulled out, to be shown something, to be held and bounced and kissed and hugged, I cant help but wish I had still had some of those memories with me.
I wish I could recall what it was like to taste the world for the first time, or the adventure of never knowing if it’s milk or juice in that sippy cup. I wish I could remember that thrill of my first step and the faces that were there cheering me on. I wish I could reach back in the depths of my mind to hear the lullabies sung and the stories told, to hear my mother’s young voice, my grandmother’s whistle. I wish I could feel the thrill of being tossed in the air with full confidence that my grandfather would be there to catch me.
I wish he could remember how happy he is making everyone around here. How he melts his grandmother’s worries away as soon as she see’s his face. How he makes everything else in his grandfather’s world disappear when he see’s his toothy smile.
I wish he could remember how his aunt loses all inhibitions in attempts to make him laugh and how everything’s right in his uncle’s world when he comes home from work and finds Little Man’s arms stretched out for a hug.
I know these particular events won’t stick in his little memory, but I know he will understand how important he is to our world.
Oh, and I will tell him.
Certain things.
Like how I did my first and only backflip when she saw him walk and how his gram called Oprah about the whole thing…
I probably won’t tell him about all the times he’s peed on me. Or how I repeatedly put his diapers on backwards.
Or how much he used to poop his pants.
Some memories are meant to be repressed.
Have a great weekend everyone. If you need me, I’ll be napping too.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 