Tag Archives: writing

Visiting Home

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After I completed the second week of my six week cancer treatment at Mayo Clinic, I was able to get back to the ranch for the weekend. I spent Saturday morning helping coach Edie’s first soccer game

and Saturday night dancing with my husband and celebrating with family and friends at a gala we host to raise money for arts and parks and recreation programming in our community.

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My treatment schedule allowed me to stay home all day on Sunday to spend time with my family.  It turned out the first calf of the year waited for me to get home to be born and so I got to be part of the start of the season. Calving on our place always coincides with crocus season, so my sister and I packed the girls into or side-by-side (which is harder to do these days now that they’re growing up so fast) and popped up to the hilltops to collect a hat full and deliver them to grandmas in exchange for ice cream. I got to see the new kittens that were just born and meet my sister’s new little chickens, sit in the sun on my parents’ deck, visit with my in-laws who came down to watch the girls for our night out, scratch the dogs’ ears, shoot a million hoops with the girls and eat my husband’s grilled hamburgers before packing my bags and getting back on a plane. All of these things that are part of the regular programming held extra shine for me, of course.

Up until this point I have been able to see the girls every weekend, but I’m not sure now exactly when I’ll be back before the end of this. I guess it all depends on how I feel, but it will be at least two more weeks. I fought back tears the whole trip.  

It’s a strange thing to be a weekend visitor of your own home, especially when you consider yourself the Co-CEO of the operation. In some ways the visit reminds you of the ways you’re needed, like the un-swept floors, the girls’ rooms that noticeably haven’t had a mom’s reminder and the Christmas lights that still need to come down off the house. These are the things I pay attention to, but they aren’t that important. The important things are handled just fine without me—getting to and from school, cooking and the meal-train that my friends set up to help Chad, after-school activities, bedtime snuggles, playing at the cousins’, homework—to know that I can step away and leave our lives generally unscathed, except for maybe the matters of the heart, is a gift.

But then that leaves me here, in this duplex, hundreds of miles from that life, with only myself to take care of for the first time since we got married nearly 20 years ago.

Now, I travel quite a bit with my music, so it’s not uncommon for me to be on my own and away from the family for a week at a time, maybe twice a year or so. It seems like this has helped prepare the girls and myself for this weird blip better than if I was a full-time stay at home mom. So that’s a blessing. But people have been asking me how I’m doing in terms of my energy-level, and to be honest, I haven’t been as rested since before Edie was born.

I went grocery shopping the other day and had to ask myself, what do I eat? What do I cook if it’s just for me? I picked up a box of macaroons and raspberries and just sort-of wandered around because well, I had time to do that–time to wander the grocery store without little people trailing behind me or a rush to get to the next meeting or event.

In every community I visit when I am traveling for music or work, I always picture what my life would be like if I lived there. If I have time, I like to walk their parks or neighborhoods or visit their cute cafes and shops and get to know the place and how I feel in it a bit. Here in Rochester, I imagine I would be a bike rider using their pretty paths along the river every night. And I would have a little dog for my lap on the couch and a big dog to come with on those bike rides and walks. I would have a nice lawn to mow and pretty flowers out front that the deer would eat. I would have a job in marketing or run a little shop or, maybe something like I do now, and my kids would play soccer in that cute park I walked past last night. There was a time I thought a community like this was where I would wind up, before moving home to the ranch was an option. If it did become my fate, I will tell you, there would have been a scooter era.

In preparing my mind for my time here away from my family I lined up some goals for myself, like get outside every day so I don’t go crazy, play my guitar more, do some sit-ups and pushups, read a book, start work on my new book and doodle–all the things working parents wish they had time for when we’re in the thick of parenting things. As it turns out, trying to morph back into a single, child-free woman for a few weeks at a time after a twenty-year hiatus is weird. To be honest, I’m spending most of my time working. And there’s a nice blessing in that too.

But I’m also eating avocado toast for breakfast and those macaroons whenever I want without judgement. And doing some sit-ups and always getting outside. I’ve considered knocking on my neighbor’s door to see if she needs me to walk her dog, but I probably won’t. That might be weird too.

Thank you for all the love and support you’ve sent my way during this journey. I read every card and every email and, by the time you read this, well, I’ll be half way done!

Onward!  

For the sake of doodling

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Edie got the highest score of the day on the basketball shooting game at the arcade last weekend. My husband and the kids came to Minnesota to spend the Easter holiday with me while I’m here doing radiation treatments for several weeks, and so we took the time to spoil them a bit and do some fun things together as a family—and one of those things was putting time in at the arcade. 

My kids, like all kids, love a good game and competition, and so they set out to win tickets on air hockey, pin ball, ski ball, Pac Man, a weird duck game, a motorcycle driving course and countless others, but every time I turned around, Edie was making her way back to the basketball hoop game where the goal was simple—make as many shots as you can in two minutes.

My oldest daughter joined a basketball team for the first time in December, and slowly it has become her 10-year-old obsession. Remember that? Remember when we were that age and we stumbled upon our thing and locked in? Watching Edie dribble the basketball incessantly in the house and then out on driveway to shoot hoops for hours, listening to her report what she knows, search up videos of Steph Curry, and seek out any chance to stand in front of a hoop, reminded me that the ability to really hone-in is what makes childhood such a special part of the whole human journey. And it made me wonder why and how so many of us lose that part of us along the route.

After I said my goodbyes to my family for the week, I found myself alone in Rochester once again faced with more quiet time than I’ve had since I became a mom ten years ago. And while my schedule is busy enough with appointments, treatments and whatever work I can get done remotely, facing down an empty house and a schedule that is entirely mine for the time being had me wondering if, at 42, I am able to lock-in to something that is purely for the sake of joy, like Edie. 

Now, I will say, that I could answer this question with songwriting. When I get behind the guitar following an idea, time does that thing where it doesn’t really exist. Writing music for the sake of writing music has always been my joy, but now that it’s part of making my living, it’s shifted a bit and I’m not entirely sure it counts in the same way.  I did the same thing with my love for photography—turning a hobby into a business might be a generational defect, but I digress…

I want to know:  when’s the last time I’ve been obsessed with something besides my children? Something that I do, not to improve the look and shape of my body, or to develop a skill to be monetized, not to be mindlessly entertained, but something that I would rush home to do without an ounce of productivity behind the thought? Like dribbling the basketball on the concrete slab? 

It’s a good question to ask ourselves, especially in this time of constant device distraction. Having the ability to be entertained at every whim has really threatened our ability to find things within us that light a spark simply for the spark’s sake.

When I was Edie’s age my thing was riding my horse, Rindy. I was old enough and big enough to go out to the pens and catch her myself whenever I wanted, and that’s what I did any chance I got. There was no hope of rodeo royalty in my future, she wasn’t a fast horse or a young horse or a beautiful horse. She was just a horse, and she was mine, and I loved to climb on her bareback and go trotting through the trees, humming to myself. I close my eyes in this quiet house now hundreds of miles away from the ranch and decades from the girl I used to be. I can remember the feeling—no agenda, only time that felt slow and the freedom to kill it.

I stopped at the Walgreens yesterday to pick up some medications. I filled my cart with grown-up things: heartburn medication and lotion, Tylenol and shampoo. I strolled by the small section of art supplies and spotted a pad of blank paper and some fresh markers that looked like they would glide nicely across the page. Before I had kids I used to sit down with my nieces and color with them. I couldn’t wait to have kids of my own so I could drop all my other responsibilities and join them just to color for the sake of coloring. I think about that now and even that feels like duty, like I would only allow myself a coloring page if it was a productive in the way that it was CARING FOR MY CHILDREN!? 

What’s wrong with us? 

I grabbed the markers and the sketch pad and I put them in my basket on top of my mascara and said quietly, “I’ll allow it.” 

I’ll allow it. 

If you need me, I’ll be doodling badly for the sake of doodling. 

And you should too… 

Promise?

A doodle from Edie

Make Art. It’s an Emergency.

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“Make art now. It’s an emergency.”

I saw this sentiment come across my feed the other day and it made me pause for a minute. Art as an emergency? It shouldn’t make sense, but it does. Entirely. In fact, I wish I would have thought to put it as bluntly. 

Emergency indicates a frantic moment forward to fix something that is broken, but the process of making art and music is quite often slow and methodical, one that’s personal, meditative, trial and error and try again. To make a painting, for most of us, is not lucrative. To sing at the top of our lungs in the car or out in the hills with your kids makes us no money at all. Dancing in the kitchen, you may argue, is not going to save a life. 

But could it? 

Recently I received confirmation the cancer that was cut out of my airway over five years ago has slowly crept back, this time on the outside of my esophagus. After a month or so in the weird and worried place of not really knowing what it all means, I’ve learned that it’s time to head back to Mayo clinic to handle it. After some testing and intake in Rochester this week, I’ll be there for six weeks of radiation treatment and a low dose of once-a-week chemo. We’ve been keeping an eye on this, it’s treatable and I’m going to be fine, but ugh. It’s annoying. 

Is that a word anyone uses for a cancer diagnosis? I don’t know, but I think I’m grateful for it. To be annoyed means I’m not in imminent danger, or in pain. It just means I’m inconvenienced.

But let me tell you the worst part about a reoccurring cancer diagnosis for me (and maybe some of you who have found yourselves in similar situations can agree) it’s hands down sharing the news with the people who love and worry about you. 

I hate it. I don’t want to be the reason anyone worries. That’s a big one for me. Don’t worry. Don’t worry about me. There’s that part. 

And I don’t want to be away from them. 

That’s the other one.

But what you want in times like these doesn’t matter. You do what you have to do and then you get called brave, even though brave indicates a choice. There’s no choice. There’s just the next step. 

Which brings me to the art. I’ve spent most of my career working to figure out how to bring more of it to rooms of people in rural communities. And over the course of six months or so I’ve seen that vision really blossom in the work we’re doing with our arts foundation. And I’ve felt it more profoundly on the stages on which I have been so fortunate to stand and sing. The rooms have been full, every seat in the crowd there waiting to listen, to tap their toes, to feel connected to something. Every chair sat behind an easel waiting for instruction, or body hovered over a paint pallet looking to create, is there to make something that wasn’t there before. Not for money. Not for acclaim. Not for anything but the learning, the sitting together, the laughing, the making. 

What is that?

 What brings people out of their homes or out of the everyday tasks of being human to create or witness art? And why is it hard to explain? Maybe because it’s primal? Like, we weren’t born to live behind computer screens, or to move eighty-miles-per-hour down a four-lane highway for hours a day. We weren’t born to know tax structure or the best product made to clean our floors. But turn on some music and watch a baby start to wiggle. Give a toddler a brush and watch her create circles. Grab your husband’s hands and he might just spin you around. Sing “You are my Sunshine” to your ailing grandmother and watch her toes tap and her lips move to sing along.

I told my kids the news the other day. They cried a bit because cancer is scary. I told them I was going to be just fine, but daddy might make them do the laundry when I’m gone. I showed them my muscles; they showed me theirs and then hit the ground to do some pushups. They can do more than me. Way more.  

After school, they asked me if it was still ok to feel happy. It hadn’t occurred to me that I needed to give them that permission, but now I know. We turned up the music loud on the way home, they sang the National Anthem at the top of their lungs in the kitchen while I made supper. They sit at the table and draw pictures of aliens and unicorns and a girl on a hill with long black hair. They dance down the hallway with the music on blast on the way to bed. I sit behind my guitar in the dark when they’re sleeping and things I didn’t know I had to say come out of my mouth in a song. 

We lose this instinct, and we lose ourselves in the sorrow and callouses that living creates.  We can’t let it happen. It’s an emergency.

Snow on the backs of horses

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It’s March now, and I feel the chilled surrender that January brings start to break up and separate inside of me, even as I stand under a gray sky that blends into the horizon as if it weren’t a sky at all but a continuation of the snowy landscape…below us, above us…surrounding us.

Flakes fell from that sky yesterday afternoon, big and soft and gentle they drifted down to the icy earth and coaxed me from behind my windows to come outside and stick out my tongue.

When the snow falls like this, not sideways or blowing or whipping at our faces, but peaceful and steady and quiet, it’s a small gift. I feel like I’m tucked into the mountains instead of exposed and vulnerable on the prairie. I feel like, even in the final days before March, that someone has shaken the snow globe just the right amount to calm me down and give me some hope for warmer weather.

When the snow falls like this, I go look for the horses. I want to see what those flakes look like as they settle on their warm backs, on their soft muzzles and furry ears. I trudge to the barnyard or to the fields and wait for them to spot me, watching as they move toward that figure in a knit cap and boots to her knees, an irregular dot on a landscape they know by heart.

I know what they want as they stick their noses in my pockets, sniff and fight for the first spot in line next to me. I know they want a scratch between their ears.

I know they want a bite of grain.
They know I can get it for them.
Our horses in the winter take on a completely different persona. The extra layer of fur they grow to protect them from the weather makes them appear less regal and more approachable.

Softer.

I like to take off my mitten and run my fingers through that wool, rubbing them down to the skin underneath where they keep the smell of clover and the warmth of the afternoon sun. I like to put my face up to their velvet noses and look into those eyes and wonder if they miss the green grass as much as I do.

On this snowy, gray, almost March afternoon the horses are my closest link to an inevitable summer that doesn’t seem so inevitable under this knit hat, under this colorless sky.

I lead them to the grain bin and open the door, shoveling out scoops of grain onto the frozen ground. They argue over whose pile is whose, nipping a bit and moving from spot to spot like a living carrousel. I talk to  them, “whoah boys, easy” and walk away from the herd with an extra scoop for the gelding who gets bullied, his head bobbing and snorting behind me.

In a month or so the ground will thaw and the fur on the back of these animals will let loose and shake off, revealing the slick and silky coat of chestnut, white, deep brown, gold and black underneath. We will brush them off, untangle their manes, check their feet and climb on their backs and those four legs will carry us over the hills and down in the draws and to the fields where we will watch for elk or deer or stray cattle as the sun sinks below the horizon.

I move my hand across the mare’s back, clearing away the snowflakes that have settled in her long hair and I rest my cheek there, breathing in the scent of hay and dust and warmer days.

She’s settled into chewing now, his head low and hovering above the pile of grain I placed before him. He’s calm and steady so I can linger there for a moment and wonder if he tastes summer in the grain the same way I smell it in her skin.

My farewell to winter is long, lingering and ceremonious.

But it has begun. At last, it has begun.

Hamster search and rescue

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“Mom, uh, I need your help,” a little voice chirped from the living room.

I was sitting at my computer at the corner of the kitchen counter, my perch and work desk for when one of the kids is home sick, which was the case today. Rosie had a suspicious runny eye that required antibiotics, so we thought best to keep the infection quarantined at home, but otherwise, she felt perfectly fine, which was a problem. Because the girl was bored.

Rosie is the second born and doesn’t do solo playing very well and so after she was done bouncing the basketball all through the house, and then the football, she decided to go get her hamster for a little snuggle on the couch while she watched a show. I had forgotten about the un-caged rodent, and apparently so had she, until she felt it maneuver out of her hand and watched his little nub of a tail disappear into the cracks of the couch.

“What do you need?” I asked, barely looking up from my laptop.

“Uh, my hamster’s, uh, in the couch.”

I popped up, panicked.

“What do you MEAN he’s in the couch?” I responded as calmly as a mom possibly could when presented with the possibility of yet another missing hamster situation.

“I mean, I was holding him and then, well, I think he’s in the cushions…”

Slowly and surely, I removed the cushions from the couch, while directing Rosie to stand by, hoping to the rodent gods that Rocket would just be waiting in the corner to be rescued.

He wasn’t.

But do you know what was waiting for us under those couch cushions? Sixty hair ties, a half-eaten sucker, twenty-seven candy wrappers, a bouncy ball, a squishy frog, a half a cookie, a million crumbs, a couple coloring pages and a partridge in a pear tree. If the hamster was indeed loose, at least he could come back to the couch to for supplies and a buffet.

“Rosie, start searching everywhere!” I declared as I ran my hands along the edges of the couch searching for any cracks he might have descended into before tilting the piece of furniture on its side.

“Oh noooo!!!! I can’t do this again!!! I should have gotten a lizard,” my daughter wailed.

Turns out our couch is sealed up on the bottom and so there was still hope that Rocket was contained. I was in the process of tilting the couch on its side when my husband returned from chores and assessed the scene. I’ve never been so happy to see another adult, honestly.  And I swear, he didn’t say a word about any of it, because that’s his superpower—to keep the judgement of his family’s actions locked up for eternity so he can focus all his energy on problem-solving. I put my ear up to the couch to listen for signs of life. My husband got down on his hands and knees in the under-the-couch rubble and shined the flashlight through the semi-transparent mesh stapled on to the bottom of the couch. Rosie held her hands to her chest and whimpered “Oh, not again. Please, not again.”  I poked my right eye through the crack next to the arm rest and spotted the bandit.

“Get the carrots!” I whispered to her. “He’s hiding behind the arm, I think we can lure him out.”

Chad whipped out his multi-tool-plier, clearly made for emergencies exactly like this one, and started pulling the staples securing the mesh from the edges under the couch, I stood guard on the back side and, after one failed attempt, Rocket was returned via carrot sticks back into Rosie’s little hands.

“I think I’ll put him back now,” she declared with relief.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” I agreed.

And that’s just one way a day can be derailed around here. I swear, between the cows and horses, the lizard, dogs and cats, I think the hamster even has the goats beat in the drama department.

If you need me, I’ll be cleaning under all the furniture because, apparently my superpower isn’t keeping up with the vacuuming.

Nothing’s Forever

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“Sometimes I don’t know how happy to be…”

I wrote this line nearly fifteen years ago in a song I titled “Nothing’s Forever.” I sing it at nearly every show, and it’s one of those lines that has popped into my head at different times in my life. I remember where I was when I wrote it, sitting on the hand-me-down leather couch in my grandma’s old ranch house. I had just moved back to the ranch with my husband and was in the in-between time of trying to decide what I wanted to do next—take a big girl job or keep on writing and singing. To figure it out I took to walking the hills daily, and on one of those walks, this little waltz came into my head.

“Sometimes I don’t know how happy to be,” was a line that came while alone in that ranch house. The world was changing all around me, with oil wells being punched in the hills and new roads being made and old buildings and barns and fences that had been fixtures of my childhood crumbling and losing their shine. The community I knew as a kid wasn’t going to look exactly the same for my kids, and there was a part of me mourning that loss, and then the other part was excited at the possibilities ahead.

Fast forward now to the possibilities ahead. We’re living them, with the kids we prayed for growing fast and the old barn still standing, but barely, begging us to make a decision about it. And the oil wells have turned to pumping units and the new roads are well worn and we keep moving.

“Sometimes I am scared I won’t know who I am, because nothing’s forever, baby.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I think as I glanced at my oldest daughter looking out the window of our SUV on the way to school. Her hair is long and blonde and it waved so pretty under the brush this morning. She doesn’t like it. She wants it to be straight and slicked and I remember that feeling when I was her age. My hair was too poofy, too brown, my nose too big, my arms too long. I don’t want her to feel that way, I want her to love her long blond wavy hair and her face and her lanky limbs, and so I looked in the rearview mirror and told both my girls they’re beautiful, which seemed out of the blue to them as they sang along to the latest song they love. They looked at my eyes and smiled. I tell them this often, even though there’s conflicting parenting advice about it. But I say it anyway. And I tell them they’re smart too. And kind. And brave. I say it all. I have to, because, well, you know, nothing’s forever, baby.

When we got home that afternoon my daughters headed outside to shoot hoops on the cement slab. The weather has been so nice, we’re being tricked into doing spring things, like switching from basketball to mud puddle jumping. When my daughters came inside, they happily presented me with shoes and pants and boots and freshly washed town jackets all coated in mud. And, as it turns out, they’re not too grown up for giving themselves mud beards. I had been stressed about the amount of laundry that had piled up and was finally getting to the end of it, and so my initial reaction was “Good Lord, I just washed your jackets!”  It was a choice that quieted their giggles, and I regretted it instantly.

“Sometimes I don’t know how happy to be…” it ran through my head, and I changed course.

I’ve never cared about broken things really. Dirty things can come clean. Remember? Remember what will matter down the road.

And so, I laughed. “You girls are crazy, get together for a picture then get in the shower!”

“If you hold tight the water, it slips through your hands, the same goes for wild birds and hourglass sands. You can chase down the light of the last setting sun, but you will not catch it, no matter how fast you run. Of all of the wild things no one can tame, one thing remains, one thing still remains, My love is forever, baby.”

Owl song

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I woke up this morning to our owl hooting outside our bedroom window. I call it our owl because he lives in the trees where we live too. I see him sometimes when I pull down our drive at dusk, perched on the road or on the top of an old oak tree. It isn’t often, but when I get to witness his big wings spread and swoop silently away in the disruption of my headlights, I feel like a witness to a sacred thing.

And so, the declaration of the owl’s presence was the first thing I said to my husband when I woke up this morning. “The owl was hooting,” I declared before my eyes were even fully awake. He opened his arms up and I buried my head there for a few moments before pouring the kids their morning cereal.

I read somewhere that in many spiritual traditions, seeing an owl is a reminder to pay attention to your inner wisdom. In some cultures, an owl hoot is viewed as a sign of spiritual protection or a guide through personal transformation or spiritual growth. A little more digging into the symbolism of the owl uncovers a dozen differing and conflicting interpretations of the animal’s presence in your life, from a hoot at night signifying immanent death to an owl’s call predicting the gender of an unborn baby.

I don’t know what it means for me that I’ve been hearing the hoot of our owl more regularly lately, except maybe that I’m listening, and that it’s comforting to me somehow to be reminded we’re out here making our casseroles and snuggling under blankets alongside the wild things, especially when the world seems heavy.

When we built our house, we put in big glass doors that slide open to the tall hill and stock dam outside. Everyone that comes to visit will first take a stop by each door to look out, hands in their pockets, to see what might come over that big hill, or walk toward that water for a drink. They’ll press their faces closer to the glass and I’ll worry that they’ll notice how are deck needs to be redone, or the grill that needs to be cleaned, but they never do. They’re looking beyond that always, into the grass and the trees and the sky.

This morning the fog settled in the low spots and blocked the sunrise. The turkeys came down to wander through the swing set and pick at the old tomato plants in my garden.

Later a coyote will come up over that hill and slink down through the path in the oaks and ash. The doe and her two fawns will eat acorns by the tire swing and it’s warm today, so the squirrels will be out, fat and frantic and chattering in the treetops where our owl sleeps.

There was a time this was the only news a human could know, and in this they looked for more meaning. In all this evolution of language and technology, connectedness and schooling and travel and religion, still, where’s the answer?

What will become of us?I close my eyes and listen for the owl call.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

from The Peace of Wild Things And Other Poems (Penguin, 2018)

Stories will save us

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Photo by Jessica Lifland | http://www.jessicalifland.com

I’m writing this from my hotel room in Elko where I’m here for the 41st Annual National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. I have made this trip to perform for several years now, but it feels like we need a gathering of storytellers now more than we ever have.

I spent the past few days traveling to schools to perform with a Utah rancher and cowboy  poet named Darrell Holden. A couple lovely volunteers drive us around to these schools in a mini-van with a sound guy and by the time it’s done we all fall in love with each other and the kids too.

In two days, we visited five schools, so the gig isn’t tough. The two of us shared in the 45-minute set where I explained how snot-scicles can form in thirty below temps and made them all sing “You Are My Sunshine” with me so loud they blew Darrell’s hat off. Darrell shared a poem about all the things he will NOT rope, and gave a succinct and funny presentation on why cowboys dress the way they do.

Anyway, every session was a bit different, but in one Darrell shared a story about how he used to ride to his grandmother’s ranch by moonlight when he was a kid. It was nearly 40 miles (with a little help by trailer from his dad in the rough patches). He recalls the tradition and the quiet and the way he felt when he rode up over the hill to see the lights on in his grandmother’s kitchen. She would always be up waiting for him, ready with a big meal of homemade bread and porkchops and gravy. It was their tradition, and one of the things I imagine makes him smile as big as he does and show up grateful in the world. He wished every kid to have a grandma like his and he wished it out loud to them as if it could make it true…

I remembered the lights of my grandmother’s house then too and the times I would come in from sitting shotgun with my dad when he fed cows in the dark after his day job. I remembered the smell of the dusty seats and the summer released into the winter air when the bale rolled out behind that old pickup. And the hum of the heater and the sweat that would form under my beanie as me and the pickup warmed up too much. He didn’t need my help, I would ride along just to be with him.

It’s why the smell of diesel exhaust makes me feel loved.

These stories we’ll share on and off stages this week are not big tragedies or sagas or dramas worth a novel. But they are ours and they might be yours too and lately all I can think is it’s our stories that will save us.

Photo by Marla Aufmuth | http://www.marlaaufmuth.com

I think it’s as good a time as any to share a new love song…

Honey, let the dogs in

Honey, let the dogs in, it’s two below
the wind’s blowing cold through that unset door
where the flies get in in the summertime
breeze in the spring, and the soft moonlight
Thank God for cracks sometimes

Speaking of cracks, are you ever gonna fix
The one in the drive, been there since ‘06
I never really minded the dandelions growing
until the kids got too big for picking, and blowing
Then they turned to weeds again

Sometimes it rains and shines all at once
Look around, it’s just the two of us
A pot of gold in a pile of dust
Come outside before it’s gone

Honey, stomp the snow off your winter boots
You smell like Marlboros and diesel fumes
Makes me wonder who we might be
Between the sidewalks and city streets
Probably just us, but clean

Sometimes it rains and shines all at once
Look around, it’s just the two of us
A pot of gold in a pile of dust
Come outside before it’s gone

You build these walls up nice and square
And put a piece of your heart in there
I love the blue walls and creaky stair
and the times we all fit in the big chair

Honey let the dogs in, you hear them whine
It was never money, it was always time
time that slips in through that unset door
how can forever leave you wanting more…

Listen!

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Rosie made a free throw in one of her basketball games last week during a tournament in the big town three hours away. It was the last game of three, each game resulting in pretty terrible losses, as they tend to be when you’re a small school playing a big school.

Essentially, they got whipped. Every. Time.

But if you asked Rosie how it went that weekend, she will tell you that it went great. According to her, making that free throw was the happiest she’s been in months, and that included Christmas.

And I believe it. We had positioned ourselves and her grandpa and grandma and family friends to watch the game right behind the basket she made. And you should have seen her face look up at us in the crowd when that basket sunk in. Pure proud-of-herself beaming smile. I caught it on video. She’s watched it a dozen times.

Turns out it was the only point the team made in that game, but it didn’t matter to Rosie. Her fans were there to see her shining moments, and she had a couple, including a rebound and a good pass. When you’re in second grade, the little steps are huge strides in learning something new and it’s fun to see.

“I’m glad we came,” my dad said as we walked out of the school in the big town that afternoon. “Just to see her look up in the stands for us made the trip worth it.”

Now, I know there are many more important things I could be addressing today as we watch political strife play out before us in our communities and in our national news. But I think there’s a lot to take from the showing-up part in this story.

Because a few weeks ago I missed Rosie’s shining moment. I signed up to work a busy concession stand during a time her team happened to be playing. I would try to pop away to peek, but with 84 teams in town, there was quite a demand for taco-in-a-bag. And so I missed the hoop she made.

It happens.  And the kid understood the concept of “it takes a village to pull a tournament off, and the moms and dad are that village” when I explained myself. (Because Lord knows I needed to explain myself.)  But if her smile was as big when she heard the swoosh, I wouldn’t know. I sure know it wasn’t as big on the way home.

The joy is as important to share in as the hard stuff. And sometimes sharing in that can simply mean being there to witness it, to look up and acknowledge that something is happening here and I need to pay attention. I need to listen. I need to be there.

It’s not a new message, but it bears repeating: The happiest times in my life have only been the happiest because I had someone there to share it with. The hard times were only made bearable because I had someone there to help shoulder the load. Or at least hear me.

At least hear me.

My ten-year-old shot that word at me recently as she was sharing about some issues she was having with her friends at school. I usually try that tactic first, but on this day I decided to try a fix-it technique. “Just ignore it,” I said, or some type of all-encompassing advice to try to move her past the tears quickly. And she stared me square in the eyes and said, “You don’t understand. You aren’t listening!”

And she was right. I thought I knew what I needed to know from being a ten-year-old girl myself, but that that wasn’t the point. And if it was, she didn’t need me to know everything. She just needed me to hear her.  

Listen. Hear me. Be there.

It’s a small action and it’s sometimes harder than it sounds. But in parenting and in community it’s a small action that can make all the difference.  

.

Where I’m From

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Veeder homestead shack

Recently I visited our assisted living facility to conduct a writing project as part of our arts programming in the community. Armed with a questionnaire and a sort of “Mad Libs” format we received from the North Dakota Council on the Arts, we came into their common room that day asking the residents to help us make their memories into a poem.

Now, I’ve been making memories into poems most of my life, but I know that sort of expression is not something that comes easy to everyone. I’ve been around long enough to know that telling a room full of midwestern women to share their very important stories is going to be met with a smattering of humble responses to the effect of, “Well, I don’t know. It wasn’t that interesting.” It’s a sentiment I’ve heard before and one I have strongly disagreed with since I first started begging for childhood stories from my family members around the kitchen table and coffee counter.

I started early

Our favorite thing was to hear how our dad crashed his Trail 90 in the coulee with his brother, or how my mom once drove all the way home from town on Halloween with the back hatch of her car flung all the way open and she didn’t notice. And she was dressed as a witch. We like the one about the Charolais bulls getting dumped out of the back of the pickup-box trailer in the yard and any story about dad’s pony Bugger bucking him off and eating his hat and on and on, tell them again. 

Dad and his favorite dog

I don’t know if every kid is like this, but I’ve noticed it in my children as well. They linger around the adult section of the party a big longer when the stories are flowing, hanging on to every glimpse into a world they’ll never get to visit. I know I felt like that, and I still do. Hearing childhood stories from our neighbors and our family made me feel like the loose threads that tie generations together was pulling tighter.  

Lately our youngest daughter Rosie has been requesting stories from my husband and I at bedtime. She is very specific with her requests—they must be something that happened to us as a kid, and they can’t be shorter than ten minutes (not that she’s timing us or anything). Reaching back for childhood stories on command is challenging. These stories don’t just sit on the top of your mind waiting to be shared at a moment’s notice, rather, they’re there for your recollection if the conversation turns the right corner, or the coffee is flowing right, or someone else’s story reminds you of yours. 

Rosie always requests memories of our pets. I’m glad this photo exists because the outfit should be memorialized.

And that’s what we aimed to do with the writing exercise we brought to the residents that day. We came to chat and to be the ears that wanted to listen with an activity that asks you to list things like an everyday item from your home, family traditions and habits, things you were told as a child, the family mementos and where they were kept. These simple questions make you imagine yourself there again, in your childhood home, or the home in which you raised your own children. And it makes you remember little pieces of the life attached to your mom’s good dishes or the stairway in the house you once met your father coming down for work, you just getting home from being out all night, and the words not spoken between the two of you. 

Where are you from? What do you remember? What was it like?  

I want to know. I want to know to know you. I want to know to know myself.

I helped guide the residents through the exercise and then I did it myself. 

My grandma Edie

Where I’m From

I’m from guitars and a living room cable box
from a deep freezer and Schwann’s ice cream. 

I am from a double wide trailer with cedar siding and green shutters
brown living room carpet and a patterned linoleum kitchen floor
 a big leather couch and flea market coffee tables and a back deck.

Kitchen table homework, mom’s lamplight and the screen door letting the cool air in.

I am from the wild oak and ash trees 
that have grown along the banks of the creek for a hundred years
And mom’s potted geraniums 
and dad’s vegetable garden with too many weeds 
and the cedar trees he transplanted and made us water with buckets

I am from pancakes on Christmas Eve and a good ear for music

from Gene and Beth
the Veeders and Linseths
the Blacks and the Blains.

I’m from front yard basketball games
 long drives to town, the tape deck in the minivan
People magazine, coffee with neighbors and stories from the old days. 

I am from “Up and at ‘em Adam Ant,” 
and “You’re a good kid” 
and “Be-Bop-a Lula, She’s my Baby” 

I’m from skipping school on shipping day 
and Minnesota 4th of Julys

I’m from Watford City and Norway and Sweden 
and Dad’s shrinking hamburgers and mom’s surfer square bars. 

From my little sister and her pony Jerry who would try to roll her right off his back 
and her ringlets 
and the tear that was always streaking her face. 

Old black and white photos of our grandpas on horseback 
sit on the antique buffet where she keeps her good dishes 
and Indian beads and arrowheads in old jars on the back shelf
guitar picks and pocket change in little bowls on his night stand 
the same way I keep mine

My dad and sister and me in the old trailer