Tag Archives: Veeder Ranch

My built-in-best-friend

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

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

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


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

No big deal, says little sister.

Shit happens.

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

I....

cant...

breathe.

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

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

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

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

I die.

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

Including all of my secret spots.

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

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

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

I always broke down and let her stay.


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

What what?

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

who could say no to this?

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

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

Yup, that's us with Pooper...

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

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

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

Ahhh, there she went again…

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

smiling the whole way.

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

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


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

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

This will not be in Better Homes and Gardens

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I mowed the lawn yesterday afternoon on the first day this spring where the temperature was above 80 degrees.

Yes, you heard me people, 80+. It happens around here.

And so do sunburns on pasty skinned northern women who decide a tank top and shorts is an appropriate outfit for the type of manual labor that involves pushing over tall stocks of thick grass and weeds in the name of a well groomed lawn in the middle of a wild place–and then quickly decide that a northern woman with pasty skin that hasn’t seen the sun for six months should maybe try shaving her legs and applying sunscreen before attempting such risque outfits.

Eeek, it was a moment I decided I might be one of those people who look better from far away.

Anyway, as I primed and pulled and shoved that lawn mower around the old clothes line, up what was at one time a valiant attempt at landscaping and then, you know over the graveyard of bones and sticks and toys the dogs drug home from Timbuktu, sending at least two bones flying into husband’s pickup before shocking the blades of the mower on one of those old landscaping rocks and landing the machine directly in the center of a immaculately preserved cow plop from last fall, I had a wave of envy for people in town who can mow their lawns in fifteen minutes with no serious hazards to their vehicles or risk of being splattered with manure.

"She's got the mower again! Save yourself and your good eye!"

Yes, mowing the lawn and weed-eating was the equivalent of my summer outdoor chores when I lived in town. It was my favorite task and I was known for choosing hours of raking and mowing and weeding over three minutes of laundry folding.

But here’s the thing, working in the yards of all my homes in town I would not dared to have worn as little (with such little grooming) as I did yesterday pushing that mower across the barnyard. I mean, I at least owed that much to my neighbors.

And although yesterday I had to dodge barbed wire and mow around the tractor and dodge scoria flying at my exposed shins, I could at least do it with my white, scrawny, flailing arms and legs glowing (and then burning) in the sweet sunshine while sweat pooled on my forehead and down my back.

And I didn’t have to worry about the neighbors feeling sorry for me and  shaking their heads as they watched from their front porches.

Which got me thinking about my yard situation: Sigh. It will never be Better Homes and Gardens worthy and I will never  get Martha Stewart to accept my invitation for a visit.

Sigh again.

It’s a hard truth to swallow.

I mean the reality is that we live in a barnyard, a barnyard with a shop and equipment and, you know, a barn. And pickups and machinery don’t make the best lawn ornaments no matter how many pots of geraniums I set on them.

So yes, I realize there are things I may never be able to achieve in a lifetime of living on this ranch in the middle of the clay buttes, and picture perfect landscaping and pets with both eyes and no wood-ticks may just have to be some of them. Because country living means, undoubtedly, mowing over cow poop and a roll of wire and a tractor in your front yard.

But it also means running to your car in your skivvies at night with nothing but the dogs to take notice, a campfire out back on summer nights if you want, fresh-cut rhubarb left over from your grandmother’s garden, a song about wind and a long walk with your husband to your favorite spot to take the place of expensive marriage counseling.

Yes, country living means wood ticks crawling across your kitchen floor and wild weeds mixed in with your garden patch and an unending collection of mud and boots in your entryway at all times.

But it also means breaking for deer on drives to town with a cold diet coke and your hand out the window, horses, slick and sleek after shedding their winter coats grazing in the sun setting on your backyard, a cool spot in the shade, wildflower bouquets and sleeping with the windows open to feel the cool breeze as it moves the curtains and listen to the frogs sing in the creek below your house.

And this planted just for you (but not by you) a few steps out your door.

The grocery store is the basement deepfreeze, the movie theatre is an old DVD collection, a concert is learning a new song on your guitar, date night is sitting side by side on the deck on a clear night with a glass of wine or whiskey (depending on who’s drinking), the coffee house is a trip to the neighbor’s for coffee black in old mugs, and a relaxing evening is a trip to the river to drop in a line for catfish.

Or, you know, you could  always take that trip to town with your diet coke and stock up on groceries, have someone else cook you an appetizer and steak, sit on your friend’s manicured lawn, go to the bar to listen to the band, catch a movie in the theater and grab a latte on your way out.

But I would have to shave my legs for that, because in town people see you close up….

I think I’ll take that hamburger in the deepfreeze grilled up and served on my picnic table on the now-clipped lawn, a glass of wine, a tune on my guitar and a John Wayne movie, if not for any other reason than to avoid taking a shower.

Which reminds me, I am heading out into civilization to Medora to sing for my supper this weekend. If you’re looking for a nice getaway and someone else to cook you an amazing steak, please join me:

June 3, 2011
5:30-8:30 PM
Roughriders Hotel–Theodore’s Dining Room
Medora, ND

June 4, 2011
5:30-8:30 PM
Roughriders Hotel–Theodore’s Dining Room
Medora, ND

I guess I’ll have to take a shower after all 🙂

Hope to see you this weekend, but if I don’t enjoy your yards, country and city folk alike!

The horse whisperer I know…

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It was my pops’ birthday yesterday. We took him out to dinner in good ‘ol Watford City and he got to hang with little man and have a steak and watch the sun finally peek through the clouds and shine in on the dining table of the restaurant.

Pops loves steak and little man and hanging with his family. And birthdays are a day, in the opinion of my family, that you get to do whatever you want. So I couldn’t help but think to myself as we sat in that restaurant after a day of rain and watched that sun appear that if pops could do anything at that very minute, with no realistic restrictions placed on any of his family, it would be this:

Head to the ranch, catch the horses, saddle one for each family member (including little man) and head out across the hills as the sun sank down into the horizon changing colors from yellow to pink to orange to red.


Now I know Little Man is only seven months old and it will be at least seven more before I buy him that little pony, and last time big sister was on a horse (or I guess it was the mule) she nearly had a panic attack as Pearl took after the dogs with no regard to the screeches from the tiny woman on her back. Oh, and mom is over the whole horseback riding thing and has been since she realized her husband was going to stay her husband regardless of if she ever saddled up again. So maybe the entire family on horses thing would have been a bit stressful in real life, but hey, a birthday dream is a birthday dream.

Anyway, pops has been riding horses since he could walk. It is a piece of him that’s pretty amazing actually, how it feeds his soul, how he appreciates the animal and how he can get a horse that has been giving other riders headaches and heartaches to trust and move forward and learn a little every day.

Because Pops hasn’t found a horse he doesn’t like. Yes, he has favorites, but each animal has something to give to him, some redeeming quality. And the quirks–the one that lays down in frustration, the one that doesn’t like her ears touched, the one that is soft-footed, the one that shies at rocks and cows and any leaf that moves, can be worked with, can be better and  is what pops calls “a good horse.”

They’re all good horses.

I was reminded of his instincts with the animals on a ride we took on Sunday afternoon before the rain poured down. We have seven horses on the place (and one old, blind mule) and for the most part, husband, little sister and I have been on all of them at some point or another.

All except the Buckskin.

The Buckskin, beautiful, mysterious, unpredictable, and the only horse branded with the E hanging V brand belonging to the Veeder Ranch is the most expensive colt pops has ever owned. He purchased the animal for his sound breeding and sentimental value, reminding him of his father’s lifetime horse “Buck.” Pops broke the horse, sold him and then worked out a horse trade to get him back.

I am just assuming here, knowing the nature of the horse, but it is quite possible that the previous owner didn’t get along with the Buckskin.

The horse is damn intimidating.

Well, in some situations more than others….

Anyway, it’s because the buckskin bucks, you know, just a little just about every time that saddle hits his back. But give pops the chance and he can get that horse worked out into a picturesque equine who holds his head right, lines out, and gets over the hissy fit thing. Usually by the end of the summer anyone can ride him, if they dare.

I never dare. I like to look at him though.

Anyway, that mellow-yellow attitude is not the case for the Buckskin in the spring. On the first spring ride the Buckskin has his kinks and pops talks himself out of riding the other horses he is working on and into getting on his favorite.

And that’s what happened on Sunday. I chose my sorrel, Colonel (who shares in my personality disorders: laid back, wussy, clumsy, and too trusting)  and then had to put him back because those qualities got his ass kicked in the pen by the other horses.

So it was me and the Red Fury, little sister’s horse, (who shares the same personality disorders as her: energetic, ADD , impatient, stubborn and literally raring to go). Needless to say when we get together we get pissy.

Both of us.

So as I was negotiating with the Fury, pops was saddling the Buckskin as the hump in the horse’s back continued to grow.

He laid on the saddle and the horse swung to the side. He pulled the cinch and he gave a little jump.

I got nervous and the Fury got more nervous as pops lunged the buckskin in a circle, the first step in getting the kinks out.

Pops patted down his back, slapped the stirrups against his side. The buckskin hopped.

The Fury snorted.

I whimpered and had a vision of a runaway stampede as husband saddled up the big Paint he doesn’t necessarily get along with no matter how hard he tries.

Good Lord, we are all going to hit the ground.

I cringed and pops laughed at his mount as the Buckskin continued his little hissy fit. He led him through the big pen and to the other side to open the gate. Husband worked to get the big Paint to actually take his first step forward and away from the barnyard. I continued my negotiations with the Fury and held my breath as pops swung his leg over the Buckskin’s back.

Now here I will tell you I’ve grown up riding alongside my pops and in all of my 27 years I really can’t recall a time I have ever seen him hit the ground as a result of a mis-behaving horse.

A stumble? Yes.

A buck? No.

But I project. I project what I feel like when a horse is acting up and what it felt like for me the countless times I have been canned on the hard clay of the ranch. Because at least twice, as the result of a buck-off, I have been convinced I would never feel my left arm again, and I am pretty sure that is a sensation that you don’t get back the third time.

Anyway, I need to remember that the fear I hold is the not the fear pops holds when it comes to horses. Because pops is a teacher and the horse is his student.


He is always in control and he loves the challenge as much as he loves the result of his teaching.

So he swung on and took a moment to let his favorite horse show him what he was made of. He laughed and said something like:

“Ok horse, let’s get this over with. Show me what you got.”

And with that husband (who finally made it to the gate) and I watched in awe as he gave the Buckskin a little kick and the horse, with what seemed like a mile between the saddle and his back, hunched over and made his best argument for why he didn’t feel like taking a ride today.

And pops pulled the horse’s head around in a nice, tight little circle, pushed him back and forth between the four fences of the corral, stopped him, backed him up and did the whole scene all over again until the Buckskin’s ears moved forward from the pinned back position, his mouth started working with understanding and his head dropped down in cooperation.

It was five minutes. Five minutes of patience and listening and that horse went from broncy to trail horse.

(No photo available…I was too nervous) 

And off we went following that cowboy who has undoubtedly performed that process hundreds of times over his now 50 + years. and loved every minute of it. And in that two-hour ride, that horse that had behaved so badly at the beginning of the ride was the best behaved throughout the duration of the trip.

The Red Fury? Well we had words in the field half-way through and I finally let him open up and give it a good run and we were fine at the end of it all.

We always are.

But that’s the thing. I have been watching pops work with horses since I sat my butt in a saddle for the first time at six years old. I have watched him face challenging animals with the same kind of patience I witnessed on Sunday time and time again and I have always wished for the same thing, the same qualities in myself.

And pops would give me chances to learn by allowing me to put miles on horses he was breaking and when I came back sweaty and frustrated and bruised he wouldn’t get worked up. He would just tell me that’s the nature of the work. That horses need time to learn.

And so do I.

I imagine though, at his age, on his 50+ birthday, he knows things about the animals that I will never know. I imagine that he dreams about them. I imagine he always has.

Because if you ever go on a ride with my father you will get a glimpse of a man who is doing exactly what he was meant to do. It’s infectious, joy that pure. I get the same feeling when I’m singing my favorite song and have waves of it when all is going well on the back of my favorite horse when I can just let go of worries and shed off the layers of insecurity.

But when pops is on a horse there is no insecurity. There is no fear. There is no worry or dread of sense of time restrictions or mortality.

And there is no place else he’d rather be.

Better than television

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

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

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

You really should watch the program.

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

Or a mountain.

It’s television at it’s best.

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

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

And I was an elk for a minute…

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

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

Dear Brown Dog…

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Dear big brown dog with the fat tail that sweeps objects off of the coffee table with one swish,

I  know you don’t remember this, but at one time your nose didn’t even reach to that table in the center of our small living room, not even to grab the last of a sandwich or a piece of leftover popcorn on movie night. I know you don’t recall how I used to take you along in my car when you were so small I had to lift you onto the seat.

Because you’re a dog, and you live for the day, your memory doesn’t reach to the place where it first began, the first month into my marriage to a man I’ve known since I was a little girl. I wanted you to have him. I wanted you to be there at his side for hunting trips, drives to the big lake with a fishing pole, evening walks to the dam with a stick and nights when I was hundreds of miles away singing for my supper.

I wanted him to be yours, so I found you and brought you home to him and he gave you a name and something to chew on. And somewhere in between the pounds and pounds of kibble, the ever expanding collars, the jogs with your long pink tongue drooping out of your jowls, paws that slapped the earth with increasing force on your way to greet me at the car, you scooched on into my heart and became an essential part of a small family that only existed for one month without you.

I know you loved the ranch and the wide open spaces, the endless mud that the creek supplies and the water in the dam that never lets you down–all the smells and trails to follow, all the poop to roll in. I know you love it out here. And I know I’ve never properly thanked you, big brown dog, for giving all that up to sit in the passenger seat of the car on my 24th birthday as I drove us hundreds of miles away from the only home you ever knew, leaving my new husband behind to pack up the rest of our things. I needed you as we searched for a place to call home.  I needed you there as I drove into the mountain town late at night and unlocked the door to a lonely apartment, unpacked my bags and rolled out my sleeping bag to lay on the floor.

I needed you to sleep right next to me. To calm my nerves.

And you did.

You always do.

Thank you for your enthusiasm and companionship we found on new trails and sidewalks, you attached to the leash, attached to my arm.

Thank you for waiting patiently in the small backyard, sprawling out in the sunshine or hunkering down in the snow and rain until I returned home from work and husband from school. 

Thanks for wagging your tail and helping turn a bad day a bit better.

Thank you for showing remorse and regret when we left you in that apartment on a rainy night only to come home to find that you had shredded my favorite feather pillow to the point of no return.

It’s three years later and I think I still have feathers in my hair, but I forgive you.

I forgive you because you destroyed my pillow, but you have never touched my shoes.

I forgive you because you follow me, blindly faithful, even when I beg not to be followed…you follow.

And you are always eager to sit down next to me in the passenger seat–you do so time and time again. When I loaded you up and drove you back toward home, so close you could smell it, you didn’t run the rest of the way when we stopped to repair an old house, to work, to think on how we might get there in the end….

You waited as we worked it out. You nudged my dirty hands as I held my head and helped soak some of those tears up on your snout.

You cleaned up the pieces of burnt chicken that fell on the floor and went outside to wait with a stick, just in case I had the time today. Just in case I felt better. Just in case you could convince me that a little fetch fixes most things.

Thank you big brown dog for being right. Thank you for your perseverance.

And thank you for holding on to hope that someday we would bring you back here for good, back to the land of porcupines and wood ticks and water tanks and every specimen of bird just waiting to be chased.

But most of all, thank you for not running away, disowning me, howling in protest or indulging in a late night snack when I wasn’t looking, after, to your horror and in a complete moment of weakness, hubby brought this home to be mine.

And he began taking over.

And chewing on the shoes you always stayed away from. And eating your food, laying in your bed, hiding your bones in between the couch cushions and worst of all, stealing your sticks after biting your hocks during a game of fetch.

Thanks for not eating him when he does that.

I really appreciate it.

Because big brown dog with the fat tail that clears the coffee table with one swoop, you were meant to come into my life to take care of the man I love, to be his and he yours and walk off into the sunsets on hunting trips like a scene in one of those sportsman calendars.

But you could not be fooled, not by your name, not by your breeding, not by a small, black, one eyed monster biting your heals…

No matter what they say, from the very beginning,

on into the middle…

and until the end…

I’m yours.

With love,

The woman who feeds you

Momentum

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Momentum. Forward motion. Moving.

I have been thinking about the act quite a bit lately as I have been guiding my car through back roads and highways, my feet along cattle trails and off to cut my own path.  The act of moving forward, in any capacity, whether it’s walking, riding or driving, is what I envision the stream of consciousness to look like: sweaty, breathing, flushed, meandering or running in a straight line following a bird, a path, a rainbow or nothing in particular.

Because there is something about covering ground that propels not only your body, but your mind. It frees it up a bit, opens it. And even when there is somewhere else to be, a dot at the end of the map, a destination, there is something about the space between point A and point B that takes on a life of its own entirely–the space where you can’t go anywhere but forward. Where time ticks away with the miles.

I drove across the state on Tuesday. 350 or so miles from the northeast corner to west. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining and the wind was blowing across the flat landscape. The road I was following was completely unfamiliar to me as I headed in the direction of home. I had my radio blaring familiar music, music that I could sing along with and softly  I mumbled through words I have forgotten only to crescendo as I was reminded of the ones I always knew. I rolled down the windows. I sipped coffee. I adjusted and readjusted my visor and my sunglasses. I put a stick of gum in my mouth.

My mind wandered and I found myself back on all of the unfamiliar roads I have traveled during the time I was on the road with work and music. In pieces those moments flashed in and out of my memory–the toll booths on my way from Fargo to Chicago in the early daylight hours, my eyes heavy from the unexpected miles.  The long stretches of yellow lines on the interstate in Kansas. The blacktop backroads on my way to a small Wisconsin college town. The bridges that confused me in Green Bay. The antelope infested stretch in South Dakota. The mountains that unexpectedly jutted out as I hit Boise. The white-out road that welcomed me home to North Dakota and forced me to spend one spring night in my car along the interstate.

While I remembered parts of my life that weren’t significant enough to make it out of my mouth and into stories to friends and family, the miles carried me forward and turned me onto a highway I have taken home hundreds of times. And while I sped between its straight lines it was as if someone was playing DJ and handpicking the soundtrack that came through the car speakers and into my conscious to help me replay the events I moved away from and back into during the time I spent on the pavement that stretched out in front of me. Pavement I haven’t been on for years. The songs and the road and the setting sun bounced off of my aviator glasses as I thought of beer, coffeehouse gigs, sidewalks in my college town, movie theatre trips to pass the time, crying from pure loneliness, a future naively hopeful and wanting so bad to be somewhere else.

My tires hummed along as I watched the sun dip down a little further, changing from gold to pink to red and I thought about the idea of wishing to be gone. How I used to exist in that thought, in that wish, so passionately. Driving toward the horizon I suddenly felt a little uneasy, like I needed to begin constructing plans for what was next. That I couldn’t just move through the miles thinking about what could have been, but concentrate on what is now and what could be so great.

I started constructing plans for what was next. Ideas passed through my mind like a slide show, progressing with each mile marker, playing themselves out as the sky turned from red to black and headlights flashed in my eyes. But by the time the landscape started to roll a bit, after I crossed the big lake and the road began to wind the unease calmed and I settled into my thoughts, sorted them out in my head, planted some and let others fly away when I flung open the doors of my car to breathe in the familiar air of the ranch–wet grass and dirt and horse hair.

When my husband and I moved to the ranch when we were first married, we weren’t ready to be here. We weren’t ready to plant our lives. We had more to see, more to do and be. We didn’t understand yet that we did not have to hang up our wings to exist on this landscape.

And the best thing we could do for ourselves make the decision to leave. Because time was always something we understood. Time and the knowledge that only we have the power to change the way we feel, the way we live.

So we left. That dream we had since we were twelve or thirteen was staring us in the face, but our  arms weren’t open, so we left it there, alone.

To know that you can always move, to know that you have an option of a road, an option of your feet to take you where you don’t even know you need to go is one of the greatest freedoms.  That is what my husband taught me.

That is what we taught each other.

That we can always move. That we have hands to hold and feet and roads that are there to lead us anywhere we want to go.

And those hands, those feet, that longing to fly, those same roads brought us back here. When we were ready. When we understood that sometimes freedom isn’t always about leaving…

sometimes freedom is choosing to stay.

Melty Monday Trivia Question (prize alert!)

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We were foiled again by the big sky this weekend. After days of blue and sunshine that was working miracles on turning things green and purple and yellow and other glorious spring colors, in its predictably unpredictable bipolar attitude it freaked out and poured down snow and freezing rain, covering us in ice and white and shutting the lights off in the little ranch house for hours.

I was pretty pissed, I’m not gonna lie. For a few minutes.

Until I realized that it was a perfect excuse to leave  the laundry for another day.

And the dishes, and the vacuuming and the yard work and the emails and all things productive in general.

Ok. Ok. I took one more snow day in stride.

And read a book.

And cried and got all depressed because my favorite books are the sad kind.

Dammit.

But that’s it. That’s all.

Cause I want more of this…

and a little less of this…

I love a good adventure, but a girl has her limits. And snow heavy enough to snap tree branches on the last day of April is pushing that limit.

Anyway, the thing about spring snow is that it is gone before you even get the chance to use all of your favorite curse words. So when I was on my way out the door yesterday, the green grass looked like it was making its way to the surface again.

Phew.

Because today I am hitting the road on behalf of the North Dakota Humanities Council to learn about a community that was home to the first North Dakota Farm and I will be interviewing two women who are working the land for a living.

I can’t wait to hear the stories.

And can’t wait to see if anyone can guess what town in North Dakota I will be visiting this morning based on the hint above. 

First correct answer (for those not related to me who know my schedule) wins a matted 8×10 metallic print of this photo sent directly to the comfort of your home. 

I think it’s appropriate given the feisty attitude of the season.

Because nothing fixes a Melty Monday like a prize.

Love ya!

The Queen of the Barnyard

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I have added a new task to my morning routine at the ranch. Yes, while the world was watching a beautiful woman turn into a princess this morning, I was wiping my eye crusties, pulling on my vest and muck boots and heading out to the barn to play momma to two drooly, stinky, snotty, lovable, furry babies.

Oh, it’s a slightly less glamorous gig than what that princess on TV will face in her life…a few less diamonds, a lot more snot, but simply another day in the life of the Queen of the Barnyard.

Queen of the Barnyard. That’s me.

Yes, I received my crown and the important and necessary job of keeping these babies alive and growing up big and strong when our neighbor up the hill, who has been calving during one of the most treacherous, snowy, cold and wet springs in years, found these babies abandoned in the mayhem of the spring blizzards.

Our neighbor is one of those ranchers who has been running the place his father ran for his entire adult life. He is an expert when it comes to the cattle industry and takes the job very seriously. Consequently, he has spent the last few snowy months painstakingly feeding and checking his cattle in the sub-zero weather, blizzards, ice storms, rain and the occasional, merciful sunshine in order to keep the mommas happy and healthy so they will deliver happy and healthy babies in the spring.

Because that’s what good cattle ranchers do best, especially and most importantly during calving season. They watch. They pay close attention to their herd, taking in which cows are close to giving birth, who might be having trouble, what cows may need a little help in order to be a good momma and what babies need medicine or extra TLC

And these babies needed a little extra TLC indeed. One a twin whose mamma wouldn’t let him suck and the other abandoned all together, our neighbor took them into the barn, warmed them up and begin the milk replacing, bottle feeding regiment. But with all the other tasks our ranching neighbor is charged with during days of calving and feeding and the fact that our cattle don’t come to the Veeder Ranch until the grass is green, husband, pops and I decided to purchase the calves and start a little project of our own.

And I was dubbed Queen…

Not because I’m the most capable, intelligent, and fairest of them all…

but because I’m home.

And I have time to devote to a morning and evening calf feeding ritual.

So all rise for the Queen of the Barnyard looking ravishing in a yellow and gray flannel, saggy, drool soaked jeans and a Carhart cap–much more practical head-gear for royalty with these types of responsibilities.

Responsibilities like putting her morning coffee on hold to mix up giant bottles of warm milk replacer and head to the big barn where the babies are crying.

Important tasks like sliding open the barn door only to be rammed and head butted and stepped on and licked during the calves’ search for the bottles she holds tightly in each hand.

Yes, the Queen of the Barnyard puts one bottle in each hand (with the exception of when she has a camera) to feed these babies. Because she is an expert at time management and doesn’t want to leave anyone waiting (or deal with the repercussions that would occur while feeding one calf and fending off the other with her free royal arm and corresponding leg…the results sure to be painful and sloppy)

But the Queen of the Barnyard isn’t all business. Oh no she isn’t. She realizes that she is these babies’ only link to the outside world and she must teach them to be calves. So when her subjects are finished drinking she distracts them from their instinct to ram her repeatedly with their noses until she flees to the house by tossing the bottles aside to begin the ritual of demonstrating to the babies what it looks like to run and buck.

She begins by running as fast as she can to distance the needy animals’ noses from her royal butt. She then launches her body half-way across the length of the corral in a leap, lands both feet in the dirt and then finishes it off with a jump and a kick.

Hands on hips the Queen waits for the response.

Her subjects stop.

Stare.

Bow…

and follow suit.

Her Highness laughs and claps with delight.

And the Queen’s subjects shower her with kisses and bid her adieu.

Then the Queen, a hot royal mess, climbs the fence  to make the short trip home, only to do it all again in the coming hours.

Because this Queen goes above and beyond…and her work is never done.

Ah, princess Kate, you may have a castle and a country and a handsome prince, but are you the ruler of all this?

Or this?


This?

What about him?

Or him?

But most importantly is this yours?

Yeah. Didn’t think so fancy pants. Didn’t think so.

Happy Royal Wedding day everyone! I want to know what makes you king or queen of your household today.

How do the crocuses know?

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It’s official.

Deep breath in and out.

Whew.

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

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

Yes, the crocuses are here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But how do the crocuses know?

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

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

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

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

How do they know just exactly when we need them?

Our feet are planted

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Earth Day.

That’s what it is today.

And I feel there’s so much to be said about it as I sit here in this house plunking out words surrounded by this open space, this landscape that cradles me, hills that gently roll, creeks that babble and trees that reach up to the sky and dig their roots in the gumbo soil.

The fog has settled in, the rain is misting on my window, the last snow drifts are hanging on for dear life and I feel like telling you something about what a day like today means to me. Me, a woman who leaves footprints in the mud, catches dust in her hair and steps out for kisses from the wind. A woman who recognizes the smell of each season rolling in and celebrates it with a walk, a listen, a photo, a good deep breath.

A woman who was raised in a place that depends on the sun, the rain, the snow, the wind to nourish the earth to feed the animals to feed our bodies…our souls.

I want to tell you how I came from the greatest stewards of the earth, people who have sacrificed and worked long hours through winter nights and hot sunshine to plant, to water, to feed, to fix, to take good care of this acreage that has been in the family for nearly 100 years. I want to tell you that nothing was more important to them than the land. Nothing had more of an effect on the lives that they led and nothing was more important for the generations to come.

Because long before Earth Day was established, my relatives were establishing their lives here and instilling in their children how to care for their world, how to encourage it to thrive, how to take from it and how to give back.

And I want to thank them for holding on so tight, for their children, for their children’s children…

for mine.

But most of all I want to thank them for giving me the opportunity to hold this dirt in my hands, to frolic in it, to spread my wings and dig my roots in deep. I want to thank them for passing on something to believe in so strongly that I would give any material thing to belong here and work hard to make plans for it to remain in tact–the most fundamentally miraculous gift.

Yes, today the calendar says Earth Day and the people on our the planet are asked to take pause…

But out here our feet have always been planted like trees with our branches exposed standing in the face of the storms that pass, the ground that shifts and the soil that dries up, freezes, thaws and floods…

so we dig our roots deeper, reach up closer to the sun, pray harder, take good care…

and celebrate every day.