When the thaw comes
I’ll rip off these clothes
burn my wool sweaters
and boots with the fur
hide the blankets away
and cool down the tea
let the sun touch my bare skin
set the animals free
drown my scarves in the water that rushes the draw
and scream all the cold out my lungs…
when the thaw comes…
when the thaw comes…
when the thaw comes…
I suppose you haven’t noticed that it’s Valentine’s Day today have you? I suppose you haven’t heard the announcements blaring from your T.V. or examined the varieties of chocolate and pink and red things at the store.
I may or may not have caught the hint. So ok, good morning. Happy Valentine’s Day. It’s beautiful out here at the ranch this morning. The snow has been melting all weekend, and although it has left behind slush and mud and water, a lot of water, in its wake, it has also exposed some dirt, some patches of earth, glorious earth, that just days ago resembled nothing other than a frozen tundra.
And I love the way it’s making me feel, all refreshed and new. Hell, I was so into the idea of a spring day that I whipped out my vacuum yesterday and even cleaned a window or two…and maybe a toilet. Oh, and it’s making the animals feel fabulous too. The dogs have been soaking up the sun, lapping up the melt with their pink tongues, horses on the hills are laying on their sides in an open spot of ground letting the sun warm their furry bodies, the deer are rejoicing in the relief of the snow drifts and the coyotes are howling a good morning tune to me as I type this.
The dogs are howling back.
It’s a perfect morning to be celebrating love and all those mushy things…
…and so I am thinking about love and all those mushy things and what it means to me this year. Because it’s Valentines Day. And because I have been thinking about this relationship I have with husband lately because I have been working on planning our 10-year class reunion.
What? When did that happen?
And as soon as I got over the shock that this year will be the year we gather with our old classmates and attempt to explain what the hell we are all doing now and how the hell we got there and why we do or do not have little ones attached to our hips or loves attached to our arms, I realized, shockingly, that my love has been attached to mine for a good thirteen to fourteen years, give or take.
Almost half my life.
And that little piece of information has held my interest lately. Because not only does it mean that I caught husband’s eye during a time in my life when my mouth was full of braces with the little purple rubber band things and I hadn’t yet mastered the art of my hair and my favorite accessory was a smiley face necklace. And if he could fall in love with me then, I think I’m out of the woods when my hair turns a bit more gray and I start wearing Spanks. At least I hope. But it also means if all goes well and we stay healthy and relatively sane throughout the course of our lives, husband and I, at the end of it all, will have spent a lifetime together.
Young FFA love.(Future Farmers of America, for those of you who don't recognize the acronym) Good Lord.
Really, thinking back on it, it already feels like we have, because how much of your life do you recall before you hit twelve years old? I suppose that’s the high school sweetheart thing that we crazies who found love early and held on tight for whatever reasons have that maybe can’t be explained or rationalized to our friends. Yeah, we stay out of the loop when asked for dating advice and take the phone calls about commitment and then try to explain ourselves.
But how do you explain why anyone holds on so tight–through adolescence, through breakups and make-ups and graduation and college parties and living in separate cities and working long hours and giving a ring and a promise out loud…a promise you had been making to each other when your age ended in teen and you had no idea what “I promise” and “forever” really meant.
My grandparents on my mom’s side have been married over fifty years. They met and fell in love in high school and married soon after. Their lives took them across the country, across the ocean and back again. Their love gave them four beautiful daughters, eleven grandchildren and now six great-grandchildren. And they are two of the most influential people in my life when it comes to living with purpose and loving one another (and those around you) with everything you possess.
I have the privilege of being very close to them. They spent their autumns after retirement living and taking care of this very house down the road from my childhood home. And the summer after I graduated from college, the summer I was getting ready to marry husband, a boy I fell in love with who turned into a man with a ring, I lived with these high school sweethearts in their home in Minnesota.
And I am so glad I did, because what I witnessed gave me hope for lasting, true and honest love.
Lifetime love.
Between those walls and behind the windows that faced the lake, the sweethearts kept a quiet routine. My grandmother would take her coffee into bed in the morning and catch up on the news in the nightgown my grandfather no doubt bought her for Christmas that December. My grandfather would dress and read the paper, maybe out in the living room, or on the lawn on a sunny day. After the news and coffee, my grandfather would most likely make a list of what needed to get done that day—mow the lawn, fix a light switch, clean the boat—and my grandmother would work in her garden, get ready to meet friends in town to play bridge, or take a swim or a walk and be home in time to fix her love some lunch and make dinner plans.
And perhaps this isn’t or hasn’t always been true of their life together, as both of them were working parents raising four children in the city, but since I can remember the two of them always sat down to eat with each other. That was one thing that always struck me as important. Also, my grandfather generally always drives and always fills the gas. My grandmother has her own checking account, knows exactly how to fix her husband’s perfect sandwich and always comments to her girls, her grandkids, about how handsome her husband is, how lucky she is to have him…and then quickly adds, “he’s a pretty lucky guy too, I’m not so bad myself.”
And in the winter of their lives together, this carries on. I am sure my mother has much more to say about the relationship of her parents, the affection, the adoration, the breakfast in bed and the chivalry. But as their grandchild their love for one another has been a gift to me.
Because it has taught me (and bear with me here because I think it is especially important on this hyped up day with all of the pink hearts dangling above our heads and jewelry commercials blaring through the speakers) that love, long term love, even if it began in the fragile and naïve stages of your life, isn’t about the red roses or the diamond ring, although my grandfather has shown that those gestures are important too, especially on days like these…
…in fact, as I sit here I imagine that down there in Arizona, where my grandparents are making their winter home, my grandpa has ordered up some flowers and perhaps even made his sweetheart breakfast in bed.
And my grandmother probably has dinner reservations for tonight.
They’ve had practice with this holiday and these types of celebrations are important to them…
But after the holiday and the grand gestures, their love is about a bit of something else…
…it is about genuine affection and knowing when to put mayo on his sandwich, or taking a moment to make him a sandwich at all. It is about space to play your bridge game and take a swim or a walk or a book club date and the trust that there is someone at home with the light on. It is knowing when to stop the tears and when to just wipe them up when they fall. It is holding hands and making decisions based on what makes you feel good, together, and what allows you to soak up the sun and laugh at the rain.
It is about worrying about the same things while one of you is designated to hold it together. It is about being proud of each other. It is about small gestures done to make the other’s life a little easier—coffee in the morning, a full tank of gas, perfectly folded underwear, compromising on the type of milk to keep in the fridge.
It’s about complete and utter confidence…in yourself…in each other.
And although I don’t doubt my grandparents have had their fair share of hard times, I am going to go ahead and take a wild guess that they have made the conscious choice to make sure they have just as many good times to make up for it.
That’s the way they are. That’s how their love goes.
And thanks to them, I have hope that my love can go that way too…
…from braces to gray hair…
…for a lifetime.
I am having a bit of a complex, so bear with me here as I explain myself.
You know the cats?
The cats I swore were going to be in the barn, just as soon as they were old enough? The ones that were destined to be hearty mousers, country cats, tough cats that dart through the snow, sit on top of fence posts and watch over the homestead. The kind of cats who take on raccoons and live to tell about it, with one less eye or one less limb.
Cats who will whoop a dog’s ass and then turn around to take on a porcupine.
Remember that plan?
Well, somewhere between forgetting to name them, trying and failing to keep them off of the furniture, carting their feline asses to the vet for a $100 special shot, hollering “dammit CCCAAATTT” from across the room as they come screaming up from the basement, ricochet off the easy chair, do a triple flip landing on the love seat and then flinging their limber bodies, feet first to attach like velcro to the curtains…
…oh, and their developing love affair with the pug…
I have forgotten to let them outside.
I have decided it’s much too cold. Much too dangerous. There are too many hazards, too many big birds out there. Not enough fluffy blankets.
I have forgotten I am not a cat person.
I have lost my damn mind.
And up until now I have been at a loss as to why.
Why the strange, cat catering behavior? Why do I have a litter box in my home? Why do I tolerate cat hair on my stretchy pants and anything with fur to ever sit on my shoulder? Why is there a cat on my briefcase?!!!
What have I become?
I have been struggling with this question for months, making excuses for the hairy creatures while I search my fluffy soul for the answer.
And yesterday, while perusing through the family scrapbook, I found it.
But before I reveal the truth, the way, the light, I must warn you, what you are about to see is not for the faint of heart…
…for various reasons.
I hope you’re sitting down….
….
…
Ok. Take a deep breath while I apologize for the alarm. I do hope you are not traumatized in any way, but I have to say, scary and revealing as it is, I am so glad someone documented my naked, cat squeezing behavior.
Because it helped me recall how I used to love the creatures.
LOWOVEEDD THEEMMMAAAA.
Their twitching tails, pointy ears, squishy bodies and soft coats–just like a real live stuffed animal. I couldn’t get enough. I’d chase them around this very house, grab them up and, well… I was too young to remember, maybe the episode is hidden somewhere deep down in my sub-concious…
…I would squeeze them…
This is what I had going on with my morning coffee today.
And this was my company.
Don’t be jealous. I know it’s hard.
See, my little big sister let me babysit little man, not just for a few hours, but for a complete sleepover stay at my house on the ranch thirty miles away from her.
Believe it.
She trusted me with her baby and his burping habits, tiny socks, and even tinier feet. She packed up a bag filled with gadgets to deal with poop, devices for boogers, wipes and clothes and blankets and baby blue outfits and stuffed toys that sing and glow and oh, those tiny, tiny socks and sent me on my way, down the snow covered road.
I was in heaven.
I was also freaked out about the fact that there was a little human strapped in his seat placed so helplessly in my care.
So I drove approximately three miles an hour and by the time I got the guy home, he was seven years old.
And a little hungry.
So I unloaded my tiny, not quite seven-year-old nephew and all of the things that go with him into our little house in the barnyard. Husband and I spent a good thirty to forty-five minutes trying to figure out that “Pack ‘n Play” thing they invented to replace the much easier to assemble, but not so convenient to transfer “Play Pen” and just like that our house was transformed into a quiet little place with a couple boring adults roaming around worrying about what to cook for supper, to a cozy, lovey, snuggly nest filled with questions about how long to warm up a bottle and if that was a poop or just a stinky fart coming from his adorable little bottom (little man’s, not husband’s).
Oh, yes there was all of that plus baby talk and burping and diapers and cooing and lullaby singing and my heart was so full as little man drifted off to sleep in the nook of my arm. And as I laid that perfect little guy down in his temporary bed in the corner of our house, it occurred to me that what I was doing, in this exact spot, under the bright stars shining down on the roof of this very house was something precious that has quietly and innocently been done for generations.
And it got me thinking about all of the children who were brought into this very home and held tight and read to at night and fed ice cream from the deep freeze and pancakes in the morning.
My grampa reading me bedtime stories...
Little man’s momma was one of them. And so was I. Although my memory doesn’t reach as far back to recall my time spent in the “Play-pen” in the spot where I laid my nephew down, I do remember piling into my grandmother’s bed with my cousins for a night of giggling and dreaming.
I do remember ice cream on the front porch, family photos on the couch, my grandfather’s chair, my gramma’s popcorn, board games, family Christmases, Jello Salad, the kid’s table and the way the house smelled…
Push-ups with gramma on the front porch. That's me in the hot-pink pants...
…and still smells sometimes.
And each of my sisters, each of my cousins will have their own memory of the place as children: filling up the plastic swimming pool on the lawn with the hose on hot days, the pajamas gramma made for us on her sewing machine, being rocked to sleep, the bunk beds, the adventure of gramma and grampa’s house on the ranch.
My first visit to the ranch...
No doubt my father, aunt and uncle and their cousins hold their own fond memories of childhood spent under this roof as well…though I don’t feel I hold the words to attempt those stories–those emotions. They are much too important. Much too precious.
And no, sweet baby nephew won’t remember the day I rocked him to sleep in the same spot where my grandma rocked her babies and her grand-babies off to dreamland.
Gramma and me
He won’t remember how his uncle held him in the easy chair and laughed as little man grabbed onto the neck of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. Truth be told, it is possible that this baby could be one of the last generations to drift off to dreamland under this roof. And with that thought I can’t help but think how much my grandparents, his great-grandparents, would have loved to have held him and watch him laugh and make him pancakes when he grew teeth and then give him gum when his momma wasn’t around to say no.
And although I would have loved to bring my own baby home to this house someday, time and life will not allow it. But as we are making plans to build ourselves a new home over the hill I am making plans to keep this one in tact so that my cousins and my sisters might bring their children from down the road, across the state and across the country, to spend a night under the stars shining on the roof over the house their great-grandfather built– a house that held them so tight with imagination, warm smells and love.
But for now I am thankful I am here to show little man, and his tiny feet, around the place…
I am thankful he was here with me…
…under this roof.
It’s Saturday
It’s late
and we should be in town
Singing to the music from the speakers above the crowd
It’s Saturday
Your hands behind your head
kicked back the way you do
the dog curled up in bed
It’s Saturday
And I’m saying something like “We’re old”
as I slide into my slippers and your sweater
because it’s cold
It’s Saturday
The T.V.’s on
I flip through the stations
you boil water on the stove
And we could warm up the car
or give a friend a call
It’s the weekend after all
But it’s Saturday
and there’s no way
I would trade the nook of your arm
for great seats and half drunk beer
Yes, It’s Saturday
and there’s no way
you could get me out of here
Last Friday my dad and his band, along with a couple young talented guys from my hometown, got together to play music in one of the local bars. They do this from time to time when schedules allow, so I took the trip to town to tap my toes, listen and sing with them– one of my favorite things to do in the entire world.
Something I’ve been doing for years every time I get the chance.
And it reminded me of something I wrote this summer after driving home from a night playing music in town with the guys. We loaded up the equipment in the pouring rain and drove home to our beds and our families. That night I felt I needed to talk about the music, to really try to get to the bottom of what it means. So I wrote it down, I analyzed, I remembered and thought it out. And then I tucked it away as I went on with the day-to-day and found my feet on the ground I love.
And started writing music again.
So last Friday I dug it out of the archives and I wanted to post it today.
The music
I want to talk about the music. I want to really tell you about.
But I am not sure where to start, and if I do, how to end.
I want to tell you how it takes over, how it tortures, how it aches and thrills and brings me to the highest highs and the lowest lows. How I nurtured it and ignored it. How I whispered it in the night air and screamed it in the hilltops and took it with me on the road and opened the doors wide and let it out. How I shut it in tight. How it haunts me and swells and lulls and crescendos and de-crescendos through my life. I want to tell you how it holds me and throws me down and then picks me up and laughs it off.
I want to tell you all of these things. I want to make you understand this blessing and this curse.
I got home late last night in the middle of a thunderstorm. My dad, with a trailer full of speakers and mic stands and guitars and crumpled song lists, drove me home into the night after an evening of playing with his band at an event in our hometown. It is an eclectic group of men–the band. And I could describe them here for you, but that would be a novel.
That would be an epic tale of triumph and creativity and struggle and friendship all wound up in their very own reasons they get together in bar rooms, around campfires, in living rooms and on porches across the country to play–to show off their instruments, sing into the dark and the smoke the words from the pens of like-minded men and women–songs from their own pens.
They tap their feet and drink from bottles after a long day in the office, in the field, on the road, in the oil patch or at home, alone, and they let it go. They push through worn voices, lines like “come away from your working day,” or “you’re spook’n the horses,” or “long may you run”– each song hand-picked by each man for something–something that matters.
And they get requests. They get requests to sing “Pretty Woman” or anything Garth Brooks or Simon and Garfunkel or “something we can dance to!”
And sometimes they oblige. Sometimes they do. But mostly they sing what ever the hell they want. Because they’ve been here before. They’ve played those requests and sat through sets in bars where the dancers were falling into equipment and laughing and cussing heartily to each other, drowning out perfect guitar riffs and damn passionate vocals and a great steel lead. They’ve driven into the night to get to the next show for the paycheck and the idea this might lead to something bigger. One of them has played to crowds of thousands and slept in tour busses and traveled the world. One of them has spent most of his musical career picking in the living room, looking for the voice to sing it out loud. One went from picking and singing in a traveling band, to alone in coffeehouses and restaurants, to sitting alongside a young daughter as she nervously sang her little heart out in front of her first real audience. All have found a home with the band.
These are the voices that sang to me the music I grew up with. The John Prine, the Lyle Lovett, the Bruce Springsteen, the EmmyLou Harris and the Neil Young came through on weathered guitars and equally weathered voices. I listened. I followed along.
And I fell in love. I took those voices, and started searching for my own at a pretty young age. I could go along here and describe to you the linear, biography type write-up of how I moved into and out of a career focused on music. That is important for press releases and websites, but not so important to me. What I want to explain is that I was never looking for fame and fortune or a chance to wear really great outfits with the songs I was writing and singing.
I was looking for a way to tell myself something.
I would walk out in the hills behind our house and sing at the top of my lungs where nobody could hear me, just to let myself let it out. It didn’t matter how my voice sounded, but I wanted to create something. I wanted to create something as beautiful and heart wrenching and cynical as the world I saw spinning around me. So I flung it out there and with a little coaxing, I began singing with my dad in public, then playing my guitar, then the songs that I wrote. And pretty soon people wanted me as at their conferences, their summer festivals, as their side act, their opening act, and sometimes, their featured attraction. Then I found myself on the road a bit, performing at colleges and as a guest on the local radio and small TV stations. Pretty soon I found myself wanting it too–knocking on doors, making phone calls, asking to play, auditioning, entering in contests, recording my music.
And then I had to explain myself.
“How do you write?” “How does it come to you?” “Did you take any formal classes?” “Who taught you to play guitar?” “Where do you want to go from here?”
And my favorite, “You should try out for American Idol.”
Pretty soon I was 23 and making a modest living off of rationalizing my worth as an artist, playing my music, proving myself and struggling to answer these questions.
But I don’t know how to answer them. I don’t know how to explain to anyone what I decide to write down, how the music comes out and the fact that most days I don’t think I’m much good anyhow. I don’t know how to explain how it got as far as it did, and then, how I stepped back a bit. I was given a wonderful opportunity to travel the mid-west and sing my songs and tell my stories and meet all kinds of wonderful people and see the United States from the inside of my Chevy Lumina. And it was a good gig for someone like me who had no idea what she was doing really.
But to be honest here I was a little lonely out there singing songs written about a place I loved, a place I kept packing up and leaving. And I could have gone on and on like this into my life, with small successes, telling my story, telling the world about what I love and not being there to love it. To live it.
Because to me the music was words and notes and callused fingers plucking the stories out of me and into that world that used to weigh on me, inspire me, scare me a little. To me the music was all of this. All of this and suddenly it was work too.
And so I felt I was being swallowed up a bit by the method of it all. I wanted the music, but I didn’t want to be launched, I didn’t want to be swallowed by it. I didn’t want it to take everything with it as we flew down the road to the next town.
So I backed off for a bit to remember exactly what it meant to me in the first place. To find that little girl singing in the trees again. And I tried to explain. Because some people can’t imagine being given a voice and a passion and not taking it to the bank for every thing it’s worth.
But that’s just it. What is it worth to me? What is it worth to the small town band playing their hearts out on a Saturday night to a bar crowd?
I remember when I was younger getting ready to go sing at an event during a warm summer weekend. I sat in the back seat of my parent’s car as they drove to the destination and I remember my secret struggle with this situation in which I found myself. I was thankful for the gift. I was thankful for my voice and my love for the music, but I thought to myself, at that moment, when I imagined my friends at the pool or hanging out together at the lake, free of the jitters, free of the nervous stomach before the performance, that they had it pretty good. For one moment, I thought maybe I didn’t want this responsibility.
But last night, as I was strumming alongside some of the most talented and rugged and honest men I know, I whispered a quiet “thank you” to God. Because whatever the music can be, whatever expectations and struggles and disappointments and goals I have and have not achieved with this voice, I am grateful simply for what it is:
Sanity and creativity and holding on and sitting side by side with the people you love and singing into the night songs about traveling and the places you’ve been, songs about learning and death and standing up for a friend.
The connections, the mixing of voices, the harmony of two best friends, a mentor, a legend, a daughter, and a father swaying to the beat of their hearts in time to the music flying out of smiling lips and eyes squeezed shut with pure joy.
It is respect and trust enough to let it take you to a good place, a strong place where your soul speaks and all of the people you’ve loved and lost, those who lifted you up come to life for the moment.
It is finding the sound, taking a breath in unison, inviting strangers to sing along until they are no longer strangers.
It is packing up and driving into the thunderstorm at 1:30 am, rehashing the night, and the notes and the characters beside you. And making plans to sing again.
So I’d like to tell you about the music. I would. But I am sure to disappoint someone here, because what it means to me might not be what it means to you.
Because to me, it means everything.
Ok, so we had weather earlier this weekend that allowed the sun to shine and finally break down the hard, cold white a bit. Just enough to get its thaw on, to create nice drips off of the eaves, to allow some of the road to show, to create a little mud, to even soak your clothes when you’re out in it…
…making a snowman.
Now I know you are not the kind of people to judge a grown woman who choses to use her precious free time walking out in the hills on a windy day while thinking to herself: “perfect consistency…and I have just the right outfit” only to plop down on a whim and begin the age-old ritual of turning and churning and transforming the sticky drifts of white that really are starting to get on your nerves into something a little cuter.
A little more bearable.
Because it was coming to the end of a month that is historically tough on most North Dakotans (at least those who have to start a car or bundle up to go outside at any point in the course of 31 days) and I was starting to feel house bound, cold, melancholy and pasty white. I needed this thaw to defrost my mood.
And I needed to make a snowman dammit.
So when the blue skies opened up, like they often do on winter days in ND, and brought with it the sun and temperatures in the low 30s, you couldn’t keep me inside if you put bolts on the doors.
Because I would have crawled out the damn windows or up the chimney or taken the roof off if I had to.
I needed to be in the warm sun, no matter the howling wind.
Well, nobody locked me in the house or sealed the windows up. In fact, no one was even around the place on Friday afternoon to witness this little childish endeavor. And that’s ok. I didn’t need spectators or a partner in crime to help me achieve a January level of bliss. I just needed the perfect spot, my mittens, and all of that snow.
So I stepped out into the glistening bright world, strapped on my snowshoes, and marched for the hills, sinking in heavy white, trudging and puffing and sweating my way to the perfect spot…
…where I plopped.
I plopped down on my hands and knees and gathered up the sticky, wet, previously untouched snow as the wind whipped through my neckerchief and turned my cheeks the brightest shade of red. I gathered and rolled and patted and fluffed and shaped each ball together, imagining all of the snowmen of my youth. Remembering how we used to roll the snowballs until they grew so large we couldn’t possibly move them another inch. And then we started all over again with the second, enlisting help from the bigger, stronger, boys on the playground or our dads or big brothers to hoist the second snowball up, and then the third.
I smiled as I remembered how we would raid our parent’s coat closest for the perfect scarf, the wool cap, the gloves we would hang on the end of the sticks we managed to dig out of the snow for Frosty’s arms.
We would track snow through the kitchen and stick our rosy faces into the refrigerator looking for a carrot, because the man must have a carrot nose.
And what about the eyes? Rocks if it the snow melted enough to find them. Or coal if we knew where that was hidden.
Buttons on his chest? Maybe grandpa’s vest or dad’s old feed jacket.
And sometimes the man made out of snow would have a smile. Sometimes we would make a U-shaped trail under his nose with a piece of licorice or rocks or the appropriate ingredient found in the fridge.
But if the smile could not literally be made, if we could not find the proper ingredient, it didn’t matter.
Because by the time that snowman was all put together into a huge, towering man in a great outfit he was sure to sit in front yards, on playgrounds and on hilltops for months to come, slowly shrinking out of his clothes and his nose while bringing smiles of pride to the faces of the kids who made him and those who happened to walk or drive on by.
We all got the point.
Snowmen make you happy.
And it turns out they still do. Even when you are a bit older and a bit more affected by the stress of the weather and the pressure of a life that must go on despite the cold.
Even when they are put together by a woman determined not to lose her spirit again.
Even when they are out of site for the rest of the world.
Even if they look exactly like you.
Winter love and warmth from the ranch this week.
Don’t blow away!
I just have a quick story to tell you all about a girl, her medicated zit, stretchy pants and a Fed Ex man in a Fed Ex van.
Well, I am not sure how quick it will be as I haven’t decided on how many details to provide so if you know me, you better go fill your coffee cup and settle in…
See, once upon a time there was this girl who had to pay a price for all of the natural beauty and peace and quiet that surrounded her. And typically that price came in the form of inconvenient weather and malfunctioning equipment.
And always when she least expected it…
Now I think I may have briefly let you in on the debacle that was the Schwann’s Man’s attempt to reach our doorstep with his truck full of corn dogs, ice cream sandwiches, pot pies, and breaded vegetables before Christmas. And we welcome the Schwann’s Man with open wallets around here because being 30 miles away from the nearest grocery store, unless we install a little freezer in our car, our ice cream doesn’t stand a chance on a trip of that length with a working floor heater.
But when the Schwaan’s Man finds himself in our driveway, in his truck, stuck like a rock in concrete in two inches of snow, our chances at ice cream sandwiches for the next three to four months are pretty well shot to hell.
At least he still attempts to visit mom and pop.
And for good reason. See, as a woman who has worked from her home for a good amount of years, my mother has the Schwann’s Man thing down to an art. While other neighbors (I will not name names to protect the ice cream and convenience food refusers) shut off all of the lights and let the dog out when the big white freezer truck rolls down their driveway, my momma keeps track of the man’s arrival by placing that little orange dot on her calendar. And then she welcomes him (or her, there have been female Schwann’s Men…I mean people…in the past) inside for a cup of coffee while she presents her list and asks things like: “How are the roads?” “How’s your wife?” “Did little Jimmy pass that test?” “Any bad dog encounters lately?”
And the Schwann’s Person answers these questions and asks some of his or her own and then mom tries to sell them one of my CD’s while she crams her triple fudge swirl, chip ‘n mint, rocket pops and green beans into her already maxed out refrigerator.
My momma’s rapport with the Schwaan’s Man has been so positive over the years that it caused some controversy within the household when, at four-years-old, my little sister accused her own mother of having an affair with the man who brought ice cream.
But we blame that on all of the Day’s of Our Lives she was allowed to watch while mom was trying to get some work done…
Anyway, I tell you this to make sure you understand the remoteness of our living situation– nearest neighbor: at least one mile either direction. And in either direction there happens to lie some pretty gnarly, snow-covered, drifted in hills as of now. So sometimes the Schwaan’s Man was the only visitor we would get on those cold days in December.
The Schwaan’s man or Fed Ex.
And we have to be good to our guests…
Which brings me now to the stretchy pants and the zit.
See it was Martin Luther King Jr. day and I had settled in with plans of writing, testing out my new vacuum, organizing our laundry situation and maybe singing at the top of my lungs to the music I had turned up obnoxiously loud while I did it. Notice in this list of things to do that I didn’t squeeze time in for an activity like showering, brushing my teeth, putting on a fresh shirt or, you know, even looking in the mirror. I mean, it was a holiday, the snow was blowing outside my door and by my definition I was snowed in. There would be no unexpected visitors. I was safe within my cocoon of a house out at the bottom of a hill filled in with drifted snow.
On most days like these I would have been safe to put a little zit cream on the goiter that had sprouted in the middle of my forehead and skip the bra thing. No one would ever know.
Most days the only one judging my appearance would be the pug (and he can’t see me cause he’s asleep on the couch) and the lab, who would never point fingers.
Most days I would be safe.
But this was not most days. This was the day that husband was expecting a very important package. See, just a few days ago, unbeknownst to me, he had placed an order for…
wait for it…
..a portable oven…
…for his pickup.
Because every man dreams of being able to drive around while the smell of casserole or a hot pocket fills the cab of his truck with the aroma of a hot meal. The man must be really sick of sandwiches.
Anyway, husband knew this package was to arrive last Monday and he was happily on the phone with Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin to give him the much-needed directions and let him know that his wife would be in the house down the hill if Mr. Fill- in Fed Ex from Wisconsin needed me to come up the snowy hill with the big four-wheel drive to meet him.
And I would have known all of these plans and had adequate time to at least find some real pants with a button and a zipper if I hadn’t been so enthusiastically vacuuming every inch of our tiny home (ceiling included) and declaring the Dyson Animal a gift to man-kind while singing “Stand By Your Man” at the top of my lungs. I would have know about Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin’s arrival had I not missed all three or four calls to my cell phone and the half-dozen to the land line.
See, the Dyson picks up dirt and dog hair like a champ, but it sure is not quiet. And as soon as I shut the thing off, with a nice little armpit sweat going and beads of perspiration glistening on my forehead, really accentuating the zit, I put my hands on my hips and was just getting to the whole wiping my brow thing when I heard a knock on the door.
Must be pops, I thought to myself. He has the day off and he won’t judge me.
I took three swooping steps and swung open the front door.
Not pops.
Not pops, but Mr. Fill in Fed Ex from Wisconsin with really nice teeth and golden locks flowing from under his baseball cap.
“You must be Mrs. Scofield?”
“Err, ummm, yes. Yes. I guess I am. Hello.”
“Hello. Your husband told me you would be home.”
He handed me the package.
I suddenly became freakishly aware of the inappropriate use of toothpaste as zit cream and the muppet-like hairstyle I chose this morning.
“Hope I can make it up that hill,” said Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex from Wisconsin as I began to shut the door. “Your husband didn’t tell me it was that steep and these vans don’t have four-wheel drive…”
“Oh, ha. I hope you do too. Wow. It’s bad out there…”
I slammed the door. Ran to the bathroom to scrub my forehead. I found my bra. I found my pants with button and a zipper for crying out loud. I put on some damn socks. What’s wrong with you woman? Get it together! If by the grace of God Mr. Fill in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin makes it up that hill without any assistance I will never go a day without showering. I will never go a full day without swapping my stretchy pants for ACTUAL PANTS!
Fully clothed, hair tamed a bit, I pressed my nose against the window with hope that the tires on that massive “van” were covered with metal studs…the only way that thing was going anywhere.
But, alas, there were no studs. There was barely a tread on those tires. And Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin wasn’t even moving past the garage let alone up the hill, around a 90 degree turn and out of my life forever.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I called husband. He might have advice.
No answer.
I called Pops. Maybe he’s home and would come and rescue me from awkward conversation and the chance that I may have to attempt to help this Fed Ex Man in distress.
He was not home. He was driving away from the situation, but while his cell phone broke up, I thought I could hear the words “You” and “Pull him” and “Out.”
I decided I needed a second opinion and called the neighbor.
No answer.
Husband called back and I thought I heard the same advice I thought I heard come from pop’s voice box.
“Jess, unless you want a three to four hour coffee guest, you will have to pull him out yourself.”
Sigh.
I stepped into my boots just as Mr. Fill-In Fed Ex Man was approaching my door with a look of panic and defeat.
Panic, because he no doubt had no intentions of serving as a three to four-hour coffee guest in the house of a crazy woman in sweat pants and what appeared to be the start of a horn growing out of her forehead.
“Uh, yeah. I’m stuck,” he said.
And his face turned from defeat to terror as I informed him while pulling on my overalls and beanie with the ball on top that I was his only hope.
That this sorry ass would be pulling his sorry ass out.
I will note here that I do not fake confidence well. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do and that is the thought that was going through my head as I found husband’s tow rope, started up the Chevy and put it into gear to pull forward…
…and didn’t move.
I put it in reverse. Not budging.
I put it in drive. Not going anywhere.
I checked the 4-wheel drive. I put it in reverse again.
Stuck. Or something like it.
Not actually the pickup I was using, but you get the dramatic point I am making...
Oh great. I didn’t even have any Schwaan’s food to offer this man! We are officially stranded! We will be out here alone, the two of us and the only thing I have to eat is a couple tortilla chips and a brown banana. Sweet mercy, we’ll starve!
Mr. Fill in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin with his pearly white teeth gave me some space while I attempted to maneuver husband’s pickup a few more times and then…
Tap,tap.
I rolled down the window.
“Are you stuck.”
“Ha, ha, I guess I’m stuck too.”
I got out of the pickup and Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin got in. I discreetly pulled the phone from the pocket of my jacket, turned my face away from the disturbing scene and dialed husband.
“The Fed Ex guy is driving your pickup. I hope that’s ok. See. Well. It was stuck. Yeah. Well. I couldn’t get it out…oh, wait…oh…there it goes…never-mind. He got it out. Bye now!”
And as I stood there like a helpless little woman in oversized overalls and a beanie with a ball on my head, Mr. Fill-In Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin pulled the pickup over to his “van,” hitched the two vehicles together with husband’s giant rope and told me to drive.
“Just drive me on up and out and past the approach until I get straightened out and then I should be good to go.”
Well, you remember how I told you there are snow covered hills on either side of our home sweet home? Yeah, I had that in mind as I pushed on the gas and drug that Fed Ex Man in his Fed Ex Van up out of our drive, around the 90 degree angle drifted in with snow, to the top of the hill with the grain bins, to the right on the main road and I didn’t stop until I had that Fed Ex Man in the Fed Ex Van at the very top of a hill I was sure he could coast down.
And when I finally looked back I may have caught a glimpse of Mr. Fill-in Fed Ex Man from Wisconsin waving his hands in the air in panic, begging me in sign language to stop. Stop dragging him down the gravel road! Where are you taking me? How much further? Oh sweet mercy what have I gotten myself into? Who is this woman?
But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And I have never trusted a vehicle without 4-wheel drive so sometimes you just have to point in the right direction. And in the winter, that direction is down hill and right past the Veeder ranch approach, which no doubt has come to be known by delivery drivers in this area as the black hole.
I guess we’ll be getting our ice cream and our packages in town from now on.
Oh the price we pay for the simple life.
It’s Wednesday. Ughhh. Sometimes Wednesday’s are hard. You know, not the beginning of the week, not quite the end…just smack in the middle. Uff. If you’re sitting in an office or at home with the kiddies or maybe you’re driving down the road ( hopefully not reading this…geesh, pay attention) I would like to invite you to visualize Sunday with me.
Ah, sweet Sunday. It’s coming my friend.
Sunday mornings are one of my very favorite things on the planet.
Sunday mornings and coffee.
Because Sunday mornings involve pots and pots of coffee, sipped slowly out of my favorite mug with my feet up and nowhere to be. So I guess coffee is what really puts Sunday mornings up and over the top for me.
Cups and cups of coffee.
And these caramel rolls.
Coffee, caramel rolls, Sunday morning…the best…
…add this guy milling around the kitchen in his sexy cowboy flannel jammies and that’s it…I’m done.
Pretty sure my heaven is a big ‘ol pile of Sundays.
Anyway, I am sure most of you have your Sunday morning rituals that are pretty damn fantastically relaxing and cuddly and cozy and full of caffeinated beverages. But just in case you want to send it on over into the simple, heavenly, gooey, caramelicious, sugary, sweet category, Cowboy would like to share this recipe. A recipe his momma makes at every family gathering where there are mornings involved.
And I’ll tell you, a house full of relatives in the AM while the coffee is still brewing might have you shaking in your slippers, but you no longer have to worry in situations like this, because before you even pull these out of the oven, the aroma alone rouses the most bear-like guest out of hibernation…
…on occasion, there has even been applause.
Standing ovations.
Those reaction may have been solely mine, but still.
So without further adieu, I present you a glimpse into our Sunday mornings and these perfectly effortless caramel rolls.
P.S.: In case you were worried, there will be no photos displayed of me in the glory of the morning sunrise. The world (and the Schwann’s man) is in no way ready…
Cowboy Cooks His Mamma’s Heavenly Caramel Rolls:
Three simple ingredients: (I know, I know…only three ingredients!!! Wow, Cowboy’s gone soft. But I must remind you, this is a day of rest…)
Go ahead and save that little packet of cream cheese frosting for your toaster strudel. What you are about to create will not hold a candle.
Regarding the measurement of cream and brown sugar, Cowboy has somethin’ to say: “The important part is that it goes on in equal parts. The amount depends on how gooey you want your rolls. If you want to use two cups of each be my guest you rebel, but I have never had a complaint at one cup each.”
Just like Cowboy to be so darn flexible.
Now let’s get going:
Step 1: Think about breakfast the night before. Take your frozen cinnamon rolls out and place in a greased 9X13 or 8X11 pan.
Put the pan in the oven overnight so they rise while you dream of Matthew McConaughey, or, you know, saving the world. (But for goodness sake, don’t turn the oven on! That’s not the kind of warm Sunday morning we are going for here…)
Step 2: Wake up, wipe out the eye crusties and before you go any further, for cryin’ out loud, get your coffee brewing. Pour yourself a cup of Joe in your favorite mug…
Perhaps your mug dons a snarky comment. Whatever. Your mug, your intentions. And I will NOT say it’s a fine morning sir. I don’t know how parallel the two run…
Then if you are, you know, going to a later Church service, go ahead and splash a generous amount of the sweet stuff in there…
But if you are going to Church during it’s regularly scheduled programming, I don’t think Jesus will mind if you treat yourself to a little splash. I mean, he was the guy who turned water into wine…
…I’m just sayin’…
Ok, that’s better. Now open the oven and declare “Martha Stewart they’ve risen!”
Take the rolls out and pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees
Step 3: A little trick to make your life easier when you are ready to dig in. Loosen the edges of the rolls with a spatula so the caramel runs down the sides of the pan and the rolls don’t stick. You will be glad you did.
Step 4: Pour brown sugar and cream in a medium sized mixing bowl and whisk together until they are nice and blended.
Cowboy would like to remind you that this is heavy whipping cream, so if you overachieve and mix it too long you will have yourself some whipped cream, and that kind of vigor is just crazy…especially in the hours before the sun comes up.
Now pour the concoction (that has no hope of not being delicious) over the rolls.
Step 5: Put the pan in the oven and check in 20 minutes (if you can wait that long)
Here is where Cowboy gets to use the random Christmas present I purchased for him in a moment of weakness. I mean, with all of this new cooking technology at our fingertips (i.e. our 1955 oven and the first microwave ever invented) he was dying for a kitchen timer magnet.
Best. Present. Ever.
While you wait, have an orange or something. You know, to balance out the damage you are about to do when you eat the entire pan of these rolls…
…trust me, if you don’t grab these rolls out of the oven and immediately retreat with your fork into the nearest room with a lock, you will at least be tempted.
But whatever you do, definitely have more coffee…
Step 6: Ok, once the rolls are a nice golden brown color, take them out of the oven.
Grab another pan or put some tinfoil on the counter, because now you’re going to flip them over to let them out of their pan and present them to the crowd of drooling relatives that have most likely gathered in your kitchen by now.
Good flip. Now scrape the remaining caramel from the pan onto the rolls….
…pause for the applause and whistles….
..bow if you wanna…
…I know you wanna…
And say something like “Oh, this was nothing really. Effortless…wow, no need to throw roses…geesh…I just love you all. So. Much.” (wipe a tear)
Then stand back and watch them disappear.
Or, if you’re in our house, stand back and watch your wife find a few dozen reasons to walk by the pan throughout the day and take a bite or two along the way. It’s a Sunday miracle how fast a pan of caramel rolls disappears in a household of two.
Here’s to a heavenly Sunday….
…on a Wednesday…
January. Oh January. A challenging month for even the most optimistic North Dakotan. One could easily throw in the towel around here, especially with the uncharacteristic snow accumulation we have seen already this winter, but most of us stick around.
Or go to Jamaica for a couple weeks.
Some people do this.
Wusses.
But the glass-half-full individuals, we put on another layer and say things like “Wow, that snow…hard to drive in it, but gorgeous isn’t it?”
or “Whew, it’s cold out there…great day for chicken noodle soup.”
And my favorite
“Halfway through. Once we get through January, it’s all downhill…spring’s just around the corner.”
I imagine these phrases come out of the mouths of the residents of our neighboring states (oh, and Canada) in all directions, in our typically northern accents, patting one another on the back while brushing snow out of our hair and stomping our feet on the rug, cheeks rosy from the bite of the wind.
Yes North Dakota Januarys bring out the true colors of our people: the Jamaican cruisers, the Arizona dwellers, the optimists and the people who are not phased who expect it and keep their mouths shut and Carharts on. There are the non-natives that are so damn cold they can’t keep the coffee coming in fast enough. There are the natives that love it because every new inch brings a new story about a neighbor they had to pull out of the ditch or the challenges of getting the cows fed or how the Schwann’s man got stuck in their yard and didn’t even offer a complimentary package of corn dogs for all the trouble you went to in digging the southerner out…twice.
But always, no matter who is residing in this, picking up their children from school, breaking ice, enjoying winter sports, there is astonishment at how it can possibly keep snowing and how it ever was summer.
Ever.
And then the stories, the comparison from winter to winter come rolling in.
“This is bad, but not as bad as the winter of ’77. Or ’96.”
“Do you remember last Christmas when we couldn’t even get our doors open?”
Or
“I heard (insert name of town forty to fifty miles away) got another 10 inches. Can you imagine? Boy we were lucky.”
These are conversations you will hear in every diner, in every gas station while you are pumping your gas and shifting your weight back and forth against the cold, in line at the bank, by the cheese section in the grocery store, or at coffee with your neighbors.
Oh, I love it. The drama of this season.
For me, a self proclaimed winter optimist who has uttered the aforementioned phrases, I have to confess at times this season (and this month especially) make me feel a bit like a recluse. Like, all I want to do is wrap myself in a blanket and write songs about how cold I am and how much I love the warm body in bed next to me and chicken noodle soup and coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon and warm baths and my snow suit and neckerchief.
Yes, winter has typically been my creative time, not sure why, but I think it forces me to get inside my own head and listen…either that or take a nap. Cause it’s so damn quiet out here.
Anyway, I can’t remember if I told you or not, but for Christmas I received a shiny new pair of snowshoes from my in-laws. I have great in-laws.
I got snowshoes and husband got a kayak and now I am torn between wishing the summer to hurry and come back or the winter to stay…because we have toys.
We’ve never really had toys.
Anyway, since no amount of wishing will warm up this world and even though we are tempted to take a run down the nearest snow-covered hill in the new kayak, we know better. So I have so been enjoying exploring our winter wonderland in my snowshoes. Which seems like a safe winter activity. Much safer than thrusting a body attached to skis down a mountain at great speeds…or you know, doing the same in a little canoe type thing…
So the snowshoes are marvelous. I can go places on the ranch that I can’t even go in the summer because of unruly vegetation and mushy creek beds. I put those things on and I feel like Jesus, impossibly walking on the ocean’s water…only my ocean is white and cold and the waves don’t move the same way.
I attached my winter body to the fantastic contraptions for the first time last week and laughed with evil glee as my pups fell through snowbanks and frolicked and fell and tumbled headfirst into drifts while I effortlessly glided on up and over and down and around, like Jesus…wait, I think I used that already…well anyway, you get the point…
And I could go on and on, but I want to tell you a quick story about how snowshoes seem like a great idea, especially when you are on a mission to get in shape and actually be useful on the ranch. They are a wonderful invention that turns an inconvenient pile up of snow into a grand and beautifully daring adventure, and a way to get around the place to check things out, until you forget that the temperature gauge dangling outside your window does not report windchill and halfway through your trip to find the horses, which turned up a lot of footprints and turds, but no actually horses, you discover that the snot that has been plaguing your nostrils the entire trip (as snot does in cold weather) is actually not snot at all.
Because it is blood.
It is blood and it is gushing down your face and onto your scarf and staining the white snow. And just moments before you discovered this new turn of events you felt you were a bit tired, but could make it the mile back to the house with little effort. Because you are an outdoors woman. This winter is no match for you and your snow suit and your muscles.
But now there is blood.
Now there is blood and you quickly become aware that you are indeed alone out there in the wilderness. You think you might freeze to death.
Alone.
Because there is blood.
And you are cold and cannot possibly go one more step. And your feet are heavy. And you are sinking in the snow. You know you are sinking in the snow. What? Aren’t these snowshoes supposed to keep you up on this stuff? LIKE JESUS?!
Oh Martha Stewart, the house is far.
And there is blood…why…why…why?!!!!
The beautiful, snow-covered trees that you were photographing without a care in the world just moments before suddenly become obstacles looming just to get in the way of your safety.
Those drifts so deep, your feet so heavy, the dogs no help at all…those dogs just carrying on, sniffing each other chasing birds all happy and free like there is no one bleeding out here!!!
Oh lord there is blood and the house is so far away…
…those damn horses…
…damn exercise…if you ever make it back alive you vow to stay snuggled up on the couch where normal people belong in the winter. Who do you think you are? A mountaineer?
No. You decide you are not a mountaineer. You are a pale, pasty woman with noodle arms who belongs in the house writing songs about warm blankets and soup and love, not out here like some kind of crazy adventurer…
…you put your hand to your face…
…still bleeding…still blood…still the potential to die…or faint and then freeze to death and then die….
…you trudge up the hill, you stop to make sure you’re still alive.
And you are.
You are alive and you eventually make it home, sweaty and bloody and panting with the panic of it all. You make it home and realize, to your relief, that the funeral plans you made for yourself on the long, bloody trudge home can be written down and saved for the next near death experience…which you are certain you will never have because you are never leaving home again…
Home.
Where the horses and one mule are standing right in front of your door licking the salt off your car and laughing at you and your bloody, crusty nose.
You may have even heard one of them call you a weirdo.
Probably.
Damn horses.
This may or may not have happened to someone, somewhere.
And it may be funny or tragic, depending on the level of your optimism.
Oh January, how you taunt me.
Be careful out there.
Love,
A Winter Recluse turned Mountaineer turned Recluse again
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 