Together in another day…

Posted on November 24, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Thank you.

I raise my head and say these words to the sky, to the stars above hidden by the clouds and the snow falling down.

To the man beside me, deep in a dream, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of this night.

To the wild earth beneath my feet, frozen and hard and strong and sleeping too.

To the music that brings a song to my voice and the passion to sing it out loud.

To the coyotes that howl and take in the air and remind me what lonesome really is…

…to a family who shows me, every day, what lonesome is not.

To a world that holds darkness to help us know the beauty of the light…

…and the fragile purpose of a life well lived…

Thankful—I’m alive.

Thank you—you’re alive.

Give thanks—we’re alive…

…and together in another day.

Just like her. Just like me.

Posted on November 15, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I would like to take a trip down memory lane this morning because I feel I have some explaining to do. I find I have to explain myself quite regularly given my emotional outbursts, unruly hair, borderline crazy relationships with animals, worst case scenario obsession and addiction to cheese, so don’t feel bad about it. I sure don’t.

But I feel it’s necessary given all of the drama, all of the animal created chaos, all of the love for place I have spilled all over the sweet world wide web.

Because I want you to know that this behavior, this passion, this melodramatic, arms wide open to the world life I lead and the fact that I write about it in all its glory and dirt and bruises and wind and sunshine is nothing new. Nothing new at all.

Yes, at young age I was told to write it all down, little girl. Write all those feelings down so you can capture them and understand them and maybe not worry so much.

So I did it and have been doing so ever since. And most of those thoughts were held safe in books never to see the light of day.

But sometimes we were given writing assignments in school…and, well…I guess I just couldn’t hold back the emotion and the theatrics and philosophy that emoted from my innocent mind, seeing it was my time to expose my soul to the world.

In 3rd grade.

And it just happened to be that one of my most prized obsessions at the time, and actually during my entire elementary school career, was my old horse and partner in crime and confidant and best friend Rindy. Rindy the old, sorrel mare.

Me with the mare at a 4-H show. I told you I was serious about 4-H and now I present the evidence-- all over that sweet, intense face.

Rindy was often the subject of my early literature.

So my gift to you, straight out of the archives, are a couple of my early pieces on the subject of friendship and love and animal whispering–all lessons learned from this beautiful, overweight and elderly creature.

Get your tissues and be prepared to be moved beyond words.

Exhibit A:

Yes, I think Exhibit A demonstrates my flair for adventure and the competitive spirit you all know me to posses as an adult. Oh, and also pure honesty at my father’s convenient forgetfulness which provided me a valid excuse for my accident. And my love of a good story.

And my feelings. Oh my feelings…

…which seemed to be placed directly on my sleeve at birth and continued to develop and grow and overwhelm my being as time marched on and my relationship with, ahem, my horse, blossomed and grew…

I give you Exhibit B:

First, I would like to point out that it was I who coined the phrase “you complete me.”

Take that Jerry Maguire.

Second, I think it is quite evident here that I needed some real friends…you know…the kind with opposable thumbs. I guess that’s what happens when you give a girl 3,000 acres years before she is legally allowed to take her drivers test (and fail).

Point three, it appears that third grade is where I developed the art of preparing for the worst case scenario as it looks like I was arranging for the eminent death of my four legged companion, or worse, her trip to the sale barn.

As if my pops would take away my only friend.

And while I have the podium, let us marvel at my remarkable use of simile, i.e: “cling to her like a bur,” which I am certain I took from one of those children’s horse novels I was reading at the time.

In addition, it appears I was also the first horse whisperer to write about my successful experiences training the four legged beast to perform on command at such great speeds by, you know, talking it over with her.

We are a blur (or was that bur?) of athleticism and speed and pure endurance, thanks to my training skills and Rindy's agility and physique.

Also, please note the little whip I had ready in case Rindy fell out of line. A whip that was, if I’m being honest here, all show. A whip that never even grazed that horse’s butt. Not a once.

Now wasn’t that fun?

So here’s the thing about this flashback– there is more to our photos and our memories than bad red pants and other questionable fashion choices.

See, living out here for the past six months as an adult woman who is looking for her place in the world I am reminded every day of where I began: in the hills behind this very house where I fell off multiple horses, walked the coulees, wrote my first songs and sang them at the top of my lungs to the trees, where I learned to dress warm, do what I’m told, identify the wildflowers, teach a young horse to trust me and plant and tend to a garden that would reap what I sowed.

And I know that’s a gift given to me from someone, somewhere.

Because oh, how I have searched for myself, just like we all have at different times in our lives, at different transitions: from student to employee. From woman to wife. From wife to mother. From young to-“gasp”- old. Yes, I have searched before and learned lessons from failing at goals, crying about work, messing up friendships and driving away from it all.

And in the times I have lost myself I have often closed my eyes and asked the ten year old version of myself, you know, the one you see up there, what to do. I have asked her for her spirit, for her courage, for her confidence and dreams.

I have asked her where she has gone? How could she leave me like this alone and so unprepared to take on all of our plans?

Because ten year old version of me really had it all figured out. I really liked her. And there were times I needed her and her purple pants to come and be by my side, to come and save me from myself.

So I came home. I traipsed around her old stomping grounds. I clung, like she so eloquently described, to the back of horses she never had the chance to meet. I named the wildflowers and searched for stray kittens and flung my body down the clay buttes during a rain storm and did all of the things that she would tell me to do if she could have seen me wallowing like this.

And it’s been six months, a half a year since I moved back here, back home where my roots are planted. So here’s my explanation, the one I promised you at the beginning of my journey down memory lane: This world in which I’ve surrounded myself remains a wonder to me.

Because this weekend as I was looking through old photographs and laughing and teasing and covering my eyes at the choice of words and the choice of outfits, tears streamed down my face at the thought of the innocence and spirit I possessed and how my life captivated me so.

During the last six months, as I saddled up horse after horse and took off over the hills smiling, flying through pastures, talking to those creatures like I did when I was young, sometime, somewhere when I let it all go and threw myself to the wind again, someone nudged me in the ribs, her face wide in a smile, curls springing out from underneath her cap, eyes big and brown looking at me with anticipation, with excitement, with creativity and energy.

She opened her smile to say, “Hi there.”

And I saw my reflection: my hair a wreck, my jeans worn at the knees, my sorrel horse beneath me, my skin kissed by the weather and I was not afraid of myself. I was not worried. I was not unsure or fragile or grasping at the right things.

I was doing it.

The right thing.

My favorite thing.

Just like her…

Just like me.

Listen to a song I wrote when I was 12 or 13: White Horses

Weatherman, you know nothing.

Posted on November 11, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I have been home alone all week, out here, thirty miles from the nearest gas station, the nearest place to purchase a diet coke or a donut or a new pair of mittens. Oh, I could jump in my car and drive that thirty miles and visit my friends, sit down and work in town, but the new winter wind has been pushing its way through the cracks in my old house and I want to be here to greet it.

See, it has been threatening snow, threatening winter for a few days and the North Dakota weatherman loves this. He loves the drama of it all. He loves to tell us to stay indoors, to hunker down. He laughs. He banters through the green and yellow storm system on his map.

He tells us what it is going to be like.

Gusting wind. Three to four inches of white stuff. Chilly. 20-30 degrees. Cold.

And of course, when the sun will set. Approximately 6:15 pm and then you’re on your own in this little house, girl.

Just you and the cats and dogs.

And I should be afraid, after a summer filled with warm sunshine, plans for the future, long hot days with work to be done.

I should be nervous about the next four to five months where I might be forced to be cooped up, thinking, writing, planning, worrying about the future. Hunkering down.

This is what winter tends to do to people around here. Make them worry.

And those things, the solitary, the chill that sets in about now used to scare me. I used to panic and wish for the sun to return while I wrote melancholy music all winter and cursed the sky.

But this week a sort of satisfied, full, accepting calm has drifted over me and when I woke up yesterday morning to a dusting of fresh snow I fully expected the panic. I fully expected the dread to set in.

But with coffee cup in hand, I surprised myself as I sat all day by my drafty window fixated by the patterns the snow made in the lawn, by the way the wind whistled, by how, just like that, the morning, the landscape, the world was cleaned up and put to sleep under this sparkling, cold blanket.

So I stepped out in it, bundled from head to toe in layers of wool and cotton and down and knit and was struck again for the first time since my childhood at the absolute peace and tranquility winter brings.

The wind changes tune, the grass makes muffled noises as you walk through, as if to say “shhh, shhh, everything’s sleeping.” The leaves no longer crunch, the trees are bare and each species seems to blend into the next, holding on to one another, coming together for the greater good of the chilly season.

I found myself holding my breath as I crept up toward the horses who were cutting trails through the pasture, pushing aside the white with their noses and looking for the next, silent bite. They snorted and nuzzled and their hot breath warmed my chilled face, their fur now ragged and thick catching snowflakes and protecting their backs from the climate.

They are always prepared.

Nature is always prepared.

And the geese above my head yelled down, making their brief presence known on their fast flight south. A bittersweet sound. A sound that cut the crisp air.

Oh weatherman. You don’t know where I am, what this season really feels like. You would not be smirking if you did. You would not be so full of pride at your declaration, so full of hate for the wind.

Because you have never been here. You have never been so far away, so cold and so full of peace out here in this white, mysterious horizon.

But I have. I’m here. I have found a season you never will.

Ten Commandments for the Hunting Widow

Posted on November 8, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Ok ladies. Happy Monday. And if you’re reading this I would like to congratulate you. Because it seems you have, if only by the hair of your chinny, chin, survived the opening weekend of deer hunting season.

Now if you’re here and have in no way been affected by this phenomenal holiday that turns perfectly decent, shirts tucked in, clean shaven, soaped up Midwestern boys into growly, whiskey drinking, scratchy bearded, poker playing, primitive manly men, then revel in the fact that for the next two weeks you do not have to negotiate outings into civilization with your man based on whether or not he has indeed “filled his tag.”

And I am well aware that some of you womanly women get right in there and play like the boys do, taking no prisoners, leaving it all behind for the love of the sport. To you I tip my blaze orange Elmer Fudd hat and say, “Long live the sportswoman.” We’ll have to get together soon over wine and venison and hash out the hunt.

But for those lovely females who have uttered the words “hunting widow” in the last few days, or ever in your married or dating lives for that matter, I would like to offer you something here.

I would like to get up on my pedestal (or kitchen chair, or the railing of my deck, or my tiny desk) and tell you that “widow” does not have to be a word in your vocabulary. No, not yet. You too can enjoy the pure, animalistic, back to nature experience of the hunt with your man in all his glory. And you can love it. Or at least tolerate it. All you have to do is put on your sports bra and your wedgie free undies and gear up for a purely carnal experience and get back to the basics of man. If anything the experience may help you gain some clarity on the weird male behavior your love will be exhibiting for the next couple weeks.

So for the benefit of females everywhere who have a hankering to see what it’s all about, I have consulted with the manly men around me and have taken some hard learned lessons from my years of experience walking silently behind the most serious sportsmen in the county to come up with the following:

The Ten Commandments of Deer Hunting with your Man

Yup, that's me, that's my deer, that's my man, that's my denim jacket and that's my neckerchief.

1. Thou shalt not wear swishy pants

2. Thou shalt not call any animal “cute” or “adorable.” You are now the predator, the fluffy critters with the big, beautiful eyes, are the prey. You heard me. Predator. Prey.

3. Thou shalt not complain about having to pee, but will squat behind a proper bush if absolutely necessary (and be quiet about it). And while you’re at it, thou shalt wear enough warm clothes so you are not cold, and eat enough food so you are not hungry and do everything in your power to remain comfortable enough so you have nothing to complain about, because really, thou shalt not complain.

4. Thou shalt not be the first to comment on husband/boyfriends’ shortcomings with any weapon and will instead provide only positive reinforcement. I.G.: “Great shot hunny.” “Way to take your time! You’re so methodical, so patient!” “You butt looks great when you lean in like that.” And my favorite, a whispered, almost silent “wooo hooo…woo hooo” and high five accompanied by your greatest smile when he makes the kill.

5. Thou shalt not whine about how blaze orange and greenish/brownish camo are not your colors and wear the seven sizes too big clothing like Pamela Anderson would. Because if a sexy woman like you can’t pull off this color combo, no one can.

6. Thou shalt kick it in gear, power-walk style and show husband/boyfriend what it means to really get somewhere while increasing your heart rate, burning calories, and spending quality time with your man–because women invented multi-tasking for cyring out loud.

7. Thou shalt understand that while on the hunt it is perfectly acceptable to walk or sit for several hours in complete silence. And, sweet lover of the outdoorsman, this is not a time for discussion about what color to paint the kitchen walls or where you should send your unborn child to preschool or how much your dearly beloved spent on that gun slung across his back.

8.Thou shalt bring your own snacks and pay careful attention that the wrappers do not make crinkling noises and the food itself does not pack a crunch. If you must have a granola bar, bring it unwrapped for the love of venison. When man is on the trail of the big one, all he wants to eat is the big one. He is not thinking about and does not appreciate that Snickers bar or tortilla chip you are so loudly devouring.

9. Thou shalt accept the fact that while hunting there is no work on Monday, there is no house, there are no kids, there is no basement renovation or fence to build. Nothing. There is nothing but the following: Man. Woman. Beast. Hunt.

10. Thou shalt understand that if you cannot abide by the above nine commandments, thou will never again be invited along. Ever. Ever.

Which may or may not be a bad thing, you know, depending on how it all turns out.

And one more thing, before you grab that camo cap and pack the jerky, I invite you to read a previous piece of mine to get a clear description of what might happen even if you do everything wrong. Because he is your man after all, and you are his and he loves you and your over-active bladder, candy wrappers, poor circulation and everything in between–“Sneeek…Sneeeeeeek….” “Shhhhh…”

Now take off those swishy pants and go get ‘em girl. The view alone is worth it.

Part of my heart is in Texas

Posted on October 28, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Part of my heart is in Texas.

So I went there this weekend. To gather with family, to get lost in Dallas (a few times), to eat real, delicious, southern cooking, to laugh so hard I peed a little, to hug, to sweat in the humidity and curse the weather as my hair grew to twice its size, to sing, to enjoy wine surrounded by people who share the same bone structure, skin tone and fuzzy hair and most importantly to witness one of my younger cousins get married to her best friend.

And it was fantastic.

And bananas.

Because after an early morning wake up call letting us know the grandson/nephew was on his way and a 12 hour wait for his arrival, he entered this world just in time for us to get a quick snuggle, some photos and to pack and catch our plane.

250 miles away.

Because it’s a long wagon train outa here.

So as we were saying goodbye to our newest member, we were getting ready to welcome the next.

And, in case you were wondering, you can’t die of sleep deprivation or not bathing for three days in a row.

I know. I’ve tried.

(ahh, travel by plane).

But it was so worth it.

Because Texas, sweet Texas, North Dakota’s tanner, bigger breasted sister, was as sparkly and shiny as ever. With its big blue sky and rolling thunderheads, simply sophisticated stone houses, sexy drawl and cowboys with starched pants.

And as what appeared to be the North’s version of the Clampetts rolled into the Dallas airport, we were greeted by family from South Dakota and a cousin who flew the coop to Miami (and believe me, you could tell who came from where) and we all crammed into a baby blue mini-van with high hopes of making it into the city with help from the GPS systems loaded on our fancy cell phones (which turned out to be no help at all actually), the sweet Texas hospitality kicked in.

Upon hearing phrases like “you know,” “yah, sure” and my classic and irreplaceable “uff da” (yes, that actually comes out of my mouth despite my better judgment), the self-assured, tan Texans asked, “Where ya’ll from?”

And I responded more proudly than ever.

See I haven’t tried to hide my less sexy, less mysterious, less cool and less sultry and “Northern Drawl” for years. Because I learned my lesson about what happens when I try to fake it—it just creeps back in there in full force when I get excited…and I am a passionate woman, so it’s no use.

It’s all a part of growing up.

Anyway, as the lovely, accent free voice on the GPS took us just past the hotel, but not quite to the door about five times, sending us floundering back onto the jam packed interstate, multiple opinions flying, we finally decided to abandon technology and use the instincts we were born with to find the front door of the hotel.

And as we filed in, one by one, in all of our disheveled, sleep deprived, shell-shocked glory, there stood our beautiful southerly relatives with smiles as big as their Lone Star State waiting with open arms.

And yes, they were tan and clean cut and polished and starched and just a bit more fancy than what came out of that mini-van….

Yes, they looked like Texas. And they were representing well.

I’m afraid to say what we looked like.

But it didn’t matter, because right there in that hotel lobby, hugging the new babies, meeting the spouses for the second or third time, talking about the trip and making plans for the weekend, it was like we had never left one another.

It was like just yesterday we were all sleeping side by side in the basement of our grandparent’s house, searching for Easter eggs in the gumbo hills, falling in the black mud of the crick below the house, making snow men from our gramma’s bread dough, putting on productions of the Wizard of Oz and forcing all of the adults to watch as we did interpretive dances to “The Wind Beneath My Wings”….wait maybe that was just me.

And the truth is, it has been years. It has been years and miles and roads and states and plans and haircuts and schools and jobs and marriages and funerals and plans that have made us.

Plans that have broken us.

It has been years.

But we relive memories of our time at the ranch whenever we get together to make new ones. Because those memories we created as young as four and five and six have bound us together, all of us, the Kitten Caboodle Club, for life.

And as I watched my baby cousin, the one who used to run around the kiddie pool in her “wimming woot” with the hole cut out of the tummy, the one with dark brown ringlets and bright blue eyes, the girl who peed her pants and stepped in cactus every time we made our trek up to pots and pans, the girl who would stuff peas up her nose and put olives on her fingers at the dinner table every holiday, who was always laughing, always smiling, always had room for more love and life, walk down the aisle to join her man, the man she will start a whole new life with, all I could do is wish for her….

….to keep home, our home, in her heart and make a life for her children that is as wonderfully full of love and adventure and passion and imagination as our young lives were.

Because as much as this place, this landscape means to me, it means just as much to the people that surrounded me in that church that day. They were all seeing our little cousin in her white gown the way they remembered her–running wild at the ranch…ribbons and curls and cactus and excited laughter echoing off of the buttes and down the pink road.

And we may never be able to cram in on the couch at Christmastime in this little house like we did when we were munchkins.

We won’t ever all be able to all sleep together on gramma’s bed. We haven’t been that small for years. We may never even all be in the room together again…even this time we were missing one of the clan. And as time keeps ticking, we will utter each other’s names in phone calls and family updates and catch up with birthday cards and emails and an occasional call.

But it won’t matter.

It won’t matter at all.

Because we were lucky enough to spend our childhood in a magical place that has given us somewhere to pick up where we left off. No matter the time. No matter the distance.

It will always be here for you cousins.

I will do the best I can.

Because part of my heart is in Texas, another part in Miami, and Fargo, at South Dakota State University and just down the road and wherever my family may make their lives.

And the rest is here, waiting for you anytime you need it.

Bring it on, Winter. Bring. It. On.

Posted on October 27, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

It’s a long way from Texas to North Dakota.

And it turns out, an entirely different world once we made it home.

See, I wanted to tell you all about my trip down south today. I wanted to give you the details about how it felt to see one of the younger members of the Kitten Caboodle Club get married to her best friend and how much we laughed and cried and how the warm Texas sun shone on our faces and life was great and warm and green.

But in true North Dakotan fashion, this urgent weather report gets precedence over any other topic of conversation. I’ll save that story for tomorrow…

and hold that memory of 80+ weather with me for a few months, because it’s a long way from 80 here.

We touched down in North Dakota yesterday afternoon and the first full on blizzard of the year greeted us with open arms.

“Welcome Home!” said the weather as it pelted ice chunks at our exposed, tender Texas kissed flesh and we ran with heads down to our car and shivered and said things like,

“Wow, it’s freezing”

“Holy shit.”

“I almost blew over.”

“This sucks.”

That’s the thing about North Dakota. The snow alone is not so bad. In fact the snow alone is pleasant and peaceful and turns the landscape into a lovely snow globe as we put our arms around one another and let the light of the fireplace (or, if you roll like us, the TV flickering one of our favorite westerns) lull us to a blissful, cozy sleep wrapped up warm in our homes.

Yes, snow is accepted and welcomed in this form.

But sometimes it brings its BFF along for the ride (Wind. You heard of him?) You know, just for theatrical effect. And then all hell breaks loose.

Hold on to your tails!

That is what’s going on outside my window today as I sent husband out on the roads to work— a few pounds heavier due to the seventeen pieces of clothing he pulled over his body.

And for the sake of drama, which I clearly know something about, let’s count the items of clothing that made up his work outfit here, just to be sure:

1. underwear
2. long underwear pants
3. long underwear turtleneck shirt
4. socks
5. work pants
6. long sleeved shirt
7. buttoned up work shirt
8. vest
9. winter coat
10. Carhart coveralls
11. scarf
12. beanie (we call winter caps beanies. Is that weird?)
13. hard hat
14. gloves
15. boots resembling those that Buzz Aldrin wore on his quest to the moon
16. face mask

and

17. a big, goofy smile (cause he likes the drama of the storm too…and I wanted to make it to my estimated 17 items)

Yes, this outfit may sound excessive and it may bring to mind Ralphie’s little brother in “A Christmas Story.” But I tell you what, I bet husband is still cold with a wind that is shaking this tiny house this morning and working really hard to “sting the toes and bite the nose…” I mean, sitting here I am tempted to put on my beanie and mittens just out of sympathy.

I can guarantee every farmer, every rancher, every oilfield worker and every mom with kids who actually got to stay home from school today (because this is the first storm of the season and we’re not used to it yet) every office worker and every retiree is glued to the weather report today.

And thanks to the Internet, we don’t have to wait for the noon news to get the updates. We can obsess minute by minute and watch the storm pass over us in the form of a little green blob on our computer screen.

For example:

A weather update taken from www.wunderground.com

Mostly cloudy. Snow likely in the morning…then slight chance of snow in the afternoon. Blowing and drifting snow in the morning…then areas of blowing and drifting snow in the afternoon. Visibility one quarter mile or less at times. Windy. Snow accumulation up to 1 inch. Total snow accumulation 2 to 5 inches. Highs in the mid 30s. Northwest winds 25 to 35 mph with gusts to around 55 mph. Chance of snow 60 percent

Keep it together man!

And one from www.weather.com

A Blizzard Warning has been issued.

Expect low temperatures (below 20°F) and winds of 35+ mph. Also expect sufficient falling and/or blowing snow that reduces visibility to 1/4 mile or less.

And just to add salt to the wound, they have added this cute little “Climate Comparison” application on The Weather Channel website that features the 80 degree temperature in Acapulco, Mexico today.

Bitches.

Anyway, I could go on and on about what it feels like here as I sip hot coffee from my favorite cup, wrap up in a blanket and blow on my hands to thaw them out, but I think you need to see this for yourself.

So I have risked my life for you lovely readers. I have braved the blizzard to give you the promised play by play of life at the ranch.

Bring it on winter. Bring. It. On.

Because I love you.

But for those of you who are looking at this and thinking:

Why...

...oh why...

...oh why?

...oh sweet kibble why?

I have to tell you there is something about the remarkable weather changes that we experience here in the north that we all secretly love. Because it is so over-the-top. Because it is so predictably unpredictable. Because we know that now we have a perfect excuse to get together and snuggle up and hunker down under one roof and eat our soups and plan for Thanksgiving and then Christmas and wait it out with the people who we have in our lives for this very purpose.

To keep us warm on cold days.

Then we can count on them to fall in right behind our fresh footprints in the snow when the wind dies and the sledding and snowman and snow angel making is perfect.

And we know they won’t be mad when we throw a snowball at their head.

In fact, we can expect to get a bigger one smashed back at ours.

And we will laugh together knowing that we’ll be warm again soon, because in North Dakota, the only thing you can count on is a change of weather.

See, I just heard the weatherman say pleasant weather tomorrow.

Sunshine.

It will probably be 70 degrees, or at least 50, and it will take us three minutes to forget this.

Because that’s how we roll in NoDak. If it doesn’t kill ya, it’s just another story of survival to tell at coffee.

Can we go inside now?

A day to be born

Posted on October 22, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

You came into this world, ten fingers, ten toes—your daddy’s nose.

The moon was as full as our hearts, the air crisp on our cheeks.

It was the perfect day to be born.

So we rushed to meet you, because you couldn’t wait to be here, to breathe in this air with us.

And never in my life have I lost my words the way I did today. Never have I stood so still at the wonder of it all.

So before you grow too tall little one, before the time catches up, I want you to know:

Your daddy is a good, steady man and your mother has fought for this life–a life with you in it.

And you have stolen my heart. You have it.

And I have your back, little man.

Welcome to Earth baby boy. Run and jump and play and laugh and explore and learn and dance and lean on it, because it’s yours. All yours.

And I can’t wait to show you some things…

Happy Birthday!

With love,

Your auntie

Sexy, sexy sky

Posted on October 16, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Let’s talk about the sky. Really. Let’s take a look at the one thing we all have in common and embrace it and love it with all that it deserves. Because frankly, I think it’s getting tired of being overlooked, acting out like it has been the last couple days.

So alright, alright I see you. And I apologize for ignoring your these last few months, eyes on the trees as they change clothes, eyes on the dirt, eyes on the road, eyes on this guy…

eyes on my work, eyes on the future and eyes on the back of my lids when I’m trying to sleep.

But really, I have been amazed at the show it has put on for us the last couple days. I mean Crayola doesn’t even make colors this spectacular, not even in the jumbo pack. Yes, in some sort of grand finale to this harvest season the sky chose to feature a light show to spruce up the mundane landscape that has shed its leaves and has been feeling rather chilly lately, thank you very much.

How generous of the sky to strike a match to start a fire of fires–nice and toasty, no need for a sweater thanks, a light jacket will do. The sky has warmed us all up.

And made us look damn good.

Because, as my dear momma tells me, it’s all about the lighting.

And she’s right.

She’s usually right about most everything, especially when it comes to looking your best.

And it turns out, this landscape looks damn good naked as the sky casts a golden light upon its flesh and then softens it up with a bath of pink before pulling the silk sheets up over us and turning off the lights for the evening.

Sexy, sexy sky.

So strike a pose people (and pug), take off that wool scarf, let it all hang out and look up for crying out loud. The sky’s got your back, and you’re gorgeous, absolutely stunning.

And so is this guy, don’t you think?

Have mercy.

Sometimes I think life is one damn masterpiece after another.

See ya out there!

Heaven help the cat farmer…

Posted on October 15, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Ok, so I realize I am running a major risk of turning into one of those ladies….

But last night, after I had so clearly declared my feelings about the state of the cats in my life and posted it with authority and a couple necessary exclamation points for the world to see, feeling pretty free and right with the world and where I stand as far as cats are concerned, I headed out to the barn to practice taking pictures with my shiny, new fancy nancy, big girl camera.

I was glowing. This machine could quite possibly be the single most beautiful thing I have ever owned (besides the pug of course, but I don’t own him….no, that’s a free spirit there…free as the wind…and I’m pretty sure he owns me). Ok, the camera…yes, it’s more complicated than any woman I know. With more bells and whistles and mysterious features, not only is this contraption equipped to capture some undoubtedly precious moments, I am pretty sure, if I find the right button, it could very well send me back in time, or at least to the moon or something. Yes, my life is sure to be transformed with this little piece of magic…or, you know, allow me to capture an image in lowlight for starters.

Anyway, I was out gallivanting around, looking at the world from the other side of a lens that really, I’m not sure I’m worthy of owning. And as I was taking pictures of the inside of the barn, reveling in how beautiful old things can become when you spend enough money to be able to see them in high resolution (as opposed to the resolution of real life, which, as it turns out, sometimes doesn’t seem to compare…especially if you don’t wear the glasses you were prescribed), I heard it…

The lab, who had been hot on the trail of a mole or something heard it….

The pug,? Yes, of course the pug heard it…

“mew…”

Faint at first, I ignored it, certain it had to be the crazy cat from the house following me again. Cats take a while to learn a lesson.

I continued my quest for a Nobel Peace Prize winning photograph…

“…mew…mew…mew…”

Shrill, high pitched, panicky…

Ok, that’s not the noise of a creature I feed from a bowl.

But look at that magnificent spider web and those old horseshoes…

“…mew…mew…mew…”

Shit.

This is a plea for help. This is the sound of a creature that needs rescuing—this means business. And no doubt another house guest.

So, as you can imagine, even though I didn’t get around to making the pug the cape I promised him, the super-dog was all over this investigation.

Just call him the Cat Whisperer. Actually, I think his first book is scheduled for release this winter.

“mew…mew…mew…mew…”

It just couldn’t be ignored so off we went, the pug gallantly leaped through the window of the barn and landed nose to the ground toward the pathetic squeaks. And the lab, not to miss a good hunt, squeezed all 105 pounds of him right behind.

Well of course I couldn’t be left out, and going around to the door and out to the source of the “mews” would waste precious time, so I squeezed through too….you know, all of me…somehow…

Anyway, after the nose of the lab and the nose of the pug took them screaming through the barnyard, weaving in and out of the hay bales, very dramatically collecting burs and kicking up birds, I took two steps and looked down at my feet to discover what I had expected:

A tiny, fluffy, noisy, pathetic, desperately adorable, fit in the palm of my hand, kitten searching high and low for her momma, you know, in an old tire.

Oh, I’m no momma, and I couldn’t find one around anywhere, especially not in the tire, so, well you know what happened next.

I mean, how could you leave something like this out alone in the world?

Not possible.

So I swept her up and pulled her close to my face and said a few things like:

“Oh, hewo widdle kiddy kiddy…awen’t you the cutest widdle kiddy kiddy…whews yo mamma? Huh? Whews yo mamma?”

Yup, I was her.

I was that.

Crazy.

Cat.

Lady.

Crazy cat lady.

Fast or slow, punctuation or no punctuation, any way you dice it, it always spells:

C R A Z Y.

And that kitty kitty, I’m sure was glad to be saved.

It took me .5 seconds after that to get back to the house, which was not nearly enough time to concoct a story to tell husband about why oh why I was bringing yet another furry thing into our tiny, tiny home.

But as soon as I opened the door and sweetly presented our little gift from the cat gods (or from someone who is playing a dirty, nasty trick on me for ever having said an ill word toward the species) husband grabbed her up.

And when I began the inevitable photo shoot of the new addition?

getting acquainted...not going so well at this point...

He told me to stop.

Stop?

Yes stop.

“You are scaring her.”

And then, after my failed attempt at giving her milk, he fed her spaghetti.

And put her in his pocket.

And told me to stay back.

“She’s mine. “

Good Lord, what have we become?

The crazy cat lady has created a monster.

Or a cat farmer.

I wonder if this one will get a name?

Heaven help the softhearted.

I give up.

NOW IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME, I’VE GOT TO GET A CAT OFF MY CAPS LOCK…

It’s a jungle out here.

Posted on October 13, 2010 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I’m telling you, it’s a jungle out there.

Well, I’ll be honest here (because I am what I am) it is generally a jungle in here as well.

You know, with the four critters, two humans and occasional visitor popping over for supper…oh, and lovely brother in law who is living in his camper in our yard while on a job out here. Love him. He washes the dishes and brings me Oreos and grills us chicken. I’ll tell you more about him later, because you are sure to like him too…

but today I want to tell you a tale about adventure—a tale of travel and danger and betrayal and close calls with death and rescue and heroism and reuniting, passionate, true love.

A real Indiana Jones type story…

Only this involves a pug, some disheveled horses, a couple humans and….a cat.

A damn cat.

Damn the cat.

Dammit cat.

Cat, dammit

Dammit.

Cat.

Ok.

So last weekend was lovely and I spent it with an old friend and a new friend and they came out to the funny farm to take a nice relaxing ride in the hills, breathe in the fresh air and take in the beautiful fall day.

I’ll note here that I was all alone out here last weekend with my momma down the road, because you know, it’s hunting season.

The boys didn’t even leave me the lab.

Anyway, so I was excited for a ride with the ladies, but unsure of the equine skill set my guests possessed. So I decided to play it safe, because, well, you know my track record with luck and injuries isn’t so great. I didn’t want to put them in harm’s way. I didn’t want a rodeo. I wanted peace and peace of mind.

So out to the pasture I went to retrieve our best-tamed broncs.

Well, broncs isn’t quite the word.

Nor is tamed really.

Old and relatively lame might be better adjectives.

Oh, and absolutely full of cockleburs and mud from spending their elderly days out to pasture relaxing, chomping on greens and pretty much letting themselves go.

But it was time that Stormy and The Mare earned their keep around here and after literally waking them up (I think I caught the entire herd snoring) and dragging their fat asses back to the barn, I proceeded to use my hair dressing skills (I have some sweet skills I haven’t told you about yet) to remove a field of burs from their manes. After much cussing and sniffing and scratching and chunks of hair flying, I decided they might be able to pass as dignified, although slightly older, members of the equine family.

They were ready for their close ups.

They were ready for a stroll.

They looked so good, I actually had to go inside and change to my fancy shirt so we matched.

Stormy and The Mare

Anyway, we were ready and presentable just in time for my old friend and my new friend’s arrival. I introduced them to their mounts and, after an explanation on why The Mare doesn’t have a real name, we were off into the crisp, clear autumn morning.

The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. There was a flawless breeze. Not a cloud in the sky.

Perfection, just as I had planned.

And then…

“Meow….meow….meow….meow….”

What the hell is that?

“Mmmmmeeeeeoooooowwww…..meow…meow…MEEEOOWWW”

Oh, ha ha, how cute, the cat followed us.

I explained to my guests:

“Oh, that’s ok, he’ll turn back. He’ll turn back. How funny. Ha ha.”

They weren’t quite sure.

The Mare started to cough.

The sun shone warm on our backs.

We took in the scenery and talked about how great life is and…

“MEOW. Meow. Meowmewomeowmeowmeow.”

“MEOW”

Well, I guess the cat was not only coming along, he was intent on weaving his little body between the legs of the old beasts’ feet. I mean, anything for a scratch. Anything for attention.

I explained to my guests:

“Here, I’ll try chasing him back. He’ll go home if I just encourage him with a little sound effect…you know, scare him home…..”

My old friend said:

“Good luck with that.”

I said:

“Pssst….pssstt….get back….go home….psst…shhhhhh…..pppppssssssttt…..you little sh…..hahaha…..get back kitty….ppppsssstttt…..”

The Mare groaned.

My new friend was reminded why she is allergic to cats.

Stormy fell asleep.

Stormy

The cat didn’t budge.

“Meow.”

We continued on our merry way and tried to ignore the panicked screams for attention going on below us. A cat that thinks he’s a dog. A cat that thinks he’s a horse. A cat that thinks he is far more adventurous despite the lack of appropriate outfit or gear for this type of wilderness travel.

Then our attention was diverted to The Mare who had somehow developed a major limp since the last time we took her on a stroll.

My old friend wasn’t so sure her horse was going to make it.

I told her it was an act, a ploy for sympathy and attention. She has to exercise. This is good for her. She really has let herself go.

My new friend sneezed.

“Meow….meowwwwwwww…….

Reeeeeaaarrrrrooooow…..REAAAR!”

Silence.

New friend:

“I think my horse just kicked your cat.”

Old, animal loving friend:

“Oh no! Is he ok…is he…”

“Meow, meow, meow…”

Oh, good he survived.

Thinking now would be a good time to head toward home and wondering how much bleeding would be involved with carrying a cat on a horse, we turned toward the corrals.

Barnyard bound, Stormy, who had been trailing a half a mile behind the crew (no doubt facing pangs of jealousy as his much younger rival took up the lead) caught up to give my horse a good kick, you know, to remind him to respect his elders and stop looking so shiny and sleek.

The Mare miraculously recovered from her bad hip or foot or whatever ailment she was faking and picked up speed.

And the cat disappeared.

Oh shit.

Me to my guests:

“Don’t worry, he’ll find his way home. Cats can smell home. Cats are smart.”

Me to myself:

“He’s a goner. Eagle bait. Coyote bait.….shit.”

My old friend was not so sure. My old friend was concerned.

My new friend sneezed.

Onward we pushed, my posse and I, mourning the loss of our adventurous little mate, sure he would pull through, sure it would turn out fine, weary and ragged from the drama of it all (or the dust and bur particles swirling in the air).

We arrived, unsaddled, picked our wedgies, brushed our beasts, gave them a treat…

The Mare, rolling off the drama of the ride, trying to get the stink off...

and listened for the cat….

“Oh, there he is,” old friend exclaimed pointing to brave cat’s identical brother, sleepy, lazy cat. “He made it home after all.”

And honest-to-a-fault me, who has been caught in every untrue story I have woven, pulled off the ultimate sin and lied to my old friend’s face.

“Uuuhhh, yup, there he is. What a trooper.”

I didn’t have the heart. I didn’t want her to worry. I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to get in on the scavenger hunt that would ensue after her car pulled back into civilization.

So my old friend and new friend, who turns out was allergic to pretty much every particle at the ranch, but held it together so graciously and wonderfully for the love of the ride, despite a swollen eye and slowly closing throat, took off back to town, where there is no dirt and cats stay in the house and eat canned food from a fancy dish and there is no toxic dust.

And I convinced myself that the cat would come back.

And hummed that little childhood tune…you know:

The cat came back, the very next day.
The cat came back.
We thought he was a goner.
But the cat came back,
He just wouldn’t stay aaawwwaaayyyy!

I made myself some lunch. All will be well.

Took a bite.

Looked out the window.

Finished my chores.

Looked over the horizon.

Made some supper.

Turned on the yard light.

Read some pages out of my book.

Yelled for the cat.

Fell asleep.

Woke up.

Wandered around the barnyard.

No cat.

Damn cat.

Cat dammit.

Dammit cat.

Now I’ve done it. I’ve lied and will have to explain this to my old friend or risk living a life with one cat who has to play the role of two, you know, like the girl in Parent Trap, in order to convince my friend I’m not a heathen.

And I kinda missed the crazy cat. He was the yin to calm cat’s yang.

He completes….ok, well never mind.

Anyway, it was time to find him. After all, how long could he survive out there with out a proper hat or cargo pants or canteen at least?

So I rounded up Chug the pug (who would have to do in the absence of the lab) and put on my scouting outfit and we went on our own hunt, thank you very much.

My search partner

We backtracked and marched diligently along yesterday’s route, staying on course, except for an occasional pause to take a picture or chase a bird or pet the horses, we were thorough in our efforts.

Through the thick brush, up to the tallest hill I scoured the landscape with one hand on my hip, one to shade my eyes and point, Lewis and Clark style. The pug sniffed the ground and followed hot on the trail…oh wait…not a cat, just a jackrabbit. Keep it together man!

I listened in the silence for brave cat’s cries for help. I scoured the earth, high and low…oh wait, what a beautiful tree….oh, the sky is just stunning today…beep, beep, click…

FOCUS!

The pug slapped me. I slapped the pug. We were back on track, traipsing past where brave cat was allegedly stepped on, past where he meowed, and meowed, and meowed and finally, past the place I was sure he disappeared into the mist of that fine morning.

Oh no, could hope be lost? This was my last resort, my last chance at retrieving this animal that was stupid…I mean loyal… enough to follow his beloved human out into the wilderness….

Oh cat, our time was brief together, but so full of love and life…I’ll miss you…good…

“meow…meow…meow…”

The pug stopped in his tracks. That never happens.

“mmmeeeooowww….mmeeoowww….mmmeeoowww.”

I turned toward the snarly brush behind me…

“meow.meow.meow.meow.”

I looked down. The pug followed. I dug through the brush, moving closer to his pleas for help…

“meow meow meow meow.”

Close now, I looked to the sky to catch a glimpse of two little eyes blinking with worry and anticipation. Our eyes lock and the pug went crazy and started chasing his tail and brave cat, way up in the highest tree, where he undoubtedly built himself a little cat sized hammock and settled in for the night in the middle of the most gnarly brush patch on the ranch, came barreling down to the ground at full speed.