Recently, on a rainy day in April, I had a chance to visit with Tisa Peek for the Dakota Cowboy show on Bek TV. We sat horseback in her arena and talked plans and inspiration, arts and music and community building. This show is dedicated to telling the story of rural North Dakota and the people who are doing good work here, was an honor to be included.
After a long hiatus, we’re back on the podcast now that we’ve cleared the power tools off the kitchen table. And so we pick right back up at the things that are most pressing–Chad’s latest weird injury, coaching 2nd grade soccer and Rosie’s Tooth Fairy Shenanigans. Listen here, or wherever you get your podcasts!
Have you ever had one of those days where the sun is shining, there’s nothing pressing on your schedule, your family is safe and home and together and the possibilities on how to spend your waking hours are endlessly sweet and yet you can’t shake a foul mood. Like, yes, the sun is shining, but it’s shining through your smudgy windows and illuminating the dusty construction footprints on the floor and you’re hungry but you don’t want eggs until your husband makes eggs and then you do want eggs but you told him you didn’t twenty minutes ago so he didn’t make you eggs and the thought of making your own eggs is entirely too overwhelming for some reason and so you walk upstairs to faceplant on your bed and notice and grunt at the laundry that needs to be put away and resent the chores because you feel guilty about tending to them because you’d rather be outside because it’s a beautiful day and the sun is shining?
Ever had one of those days?
Maybe it was just me last weekend. I think, when I break it down, it might just be the consequence of overwhelm, or burn out, as I have been, as so many of us do, juggling about ten different pressing issues at once for the past three months and all of them have been covered in sheet rock dust.
And even when you think you have it all under control, these moods, they can sneak up on you sometimes. I was in great spirits the evening before when my husband waited for me after a work event so that we could take the kids’ horses out on their first ride of the season to make sure there were no kinks under their rapidly shedding winter coats. I chose to ride Cheerio, our little short-tailed, spotted-butt pony and Chad rode my trusty palomino, Gizmo, who Edie loves and who’s only real issue has ever been indifference to the entire human race in general. And so the girls hung with their grandparents and we took our mounts out to check on the new calves and the grass situation. And while Gizmo plodded along the way Gizmo always does, Cheerio, he was in full pony form that evening, prancing a bit, looking around, feeling sort of agitated by all the sites and a little annoyed he couldn’t stop and eat or run back to the barn at will. I laughed about it that night and enjoyed the ride, then let my husband have a turn with him before we beat the sunset home to unsaddle and tuck in for the night.
But then the morning came and I woke up a little like that pony—agitated, huffy and sorta annoying to anyone who crossed my path. The only plan I was sure of that day was to take our daughters and their cousins for their first ride in the arena. But let me tell you, in case you haven’t had to get four horses, four saddles, four bridles and four girls under the age of eight dressed and gathered and matched up and mounted for a ride, it’s far from a Zen experience.
But it turns out it was exactly what I needed even though it looked like driving four girls to gramma’s house, picking up a saddle and driving that over to the barnyard, saddling up three horses and riding them a mile to the arena, unsaddling three horses and then resaddling two horses and catching and saddling two more horses and fitting stirrups and telling four little girls to try not to run and don’t squeal and yes you can ride Gizmo and yes you can ride Cuss and yes you get Harmony and no you can’t ride Papa’s horse and ok just get off to pee in the weeds and no you can’t run at full speed around the barrel pattern right away and oh good job, you’re doing great, and look how Cheerio’s calmed down, look at him lope these perfect circles, what a good boy and look at those smiles, look at my smile, I feel like my face is breaking, what a nice day for a ride, it’s so warm, the sun is shining just right off manes and tails and ponytail fly-aways, aren’t we lucky, aren’t we lucky, what a beautiful day…
My 7th grade basketball photo. It only went south from there…
Listen. There is not an athletically gifted bone in my body. My entire childhood, my cousins called me “Tuck and Roll,” because I spent plenty of time falling off horses and breaking bones. I had to try hard to be considered for the C Squad when it came to my short-lived basketball career. My now-sister-in-law was my junior high volleyball coach and she likes to recall, at family dinners, how scared I was of the ball. Apparently ducking when someone hits a volleyball your way is not in the play-book. Also, having your boyfriend’s sister as your volleyball coach is not embarrassing at all, especially when you’re only there for the social scene…
Ask my husband the kind of team member I was during our one-season stint as a curling team and he will tell you I was more into visiting than sweeping…
Recently, when Edie wanted to play soccer through Parks and Recreation and they were looking for parents to help with all eight 2nd and 3rd grade teams, it was my husband I had in mind for the task. Even though he hadn’t played or watched a real soccer game a day in his life, unlike me, the man has excelled in sports in his lifetime. And he’s coached.
Me? Once I volunteered to help with a 4-H STEAM program and accidentally swore in front of all the 4th graders. And when they called me out on it, I did the mature thing and denied it to all their innocent faces. They were confused, I was ill-equipped and so it’s my husband who signed up to coach Edie’s soccer team.
But, you know, I am who I am, so I said I would help. And by help, I meant I would do the communicating with parents and the remembering of names and the organizing of lines and treats and photo taking. Basically, I would do the admin. And so they put my name as coach under Chad’s on the roster and here I am. Coach Jessie. And let me put some generous quotations around the word “coach” for all the aforementioned reasons.
My dear husband knew about these generous quotations and yet, the first ten minutes of our first practice, he asked me to help him demonstrate a drill to the kids, by running and kicking the ball to him. Excuse me sir? 2nd and 3rd graders are not a forgiving audience. I am here for the paperwork and let me tell you, it showed.
Fast forward to the first game last week and more problems started to surface with this arrangement. Because I might not be a competitive player, but I am a competitive cheerer-on-er, much to the dismay of my daughter. Squealing “Ope, good try!” when they miss a goal is not necessarily helpful. Also, I’m embarrassed to admit this, but when we told the kids we were going to take the first game slow to help teach positions and the mechanics of the game, I tried to reassure our little team by telling them “It’s not about winning, it’s about learning!” which was met with blank stares and a correction from my husband. “Uh, we can try to win while we learn.”
Ok. Point taken. On to the reason I was there, to run the timer and sub kids in. Which I thought I could handle until chaos started to ensue on the field and my husband dared ask which kids belonged to which positions.
To which he was met with a blank stare of my own.
“I have no idea, but I finally got their names right! I just replaced Autumn with Calvin.”
And then, the ultimate question: “Coach Jessie, what’s the score?”
“I. Have. No. Idea. Aren’t we here to have fun?”
If you need me I’ll be watching soccer YouTube videos and wondering if I can change my entire personality at 40. Maybe, in the name of youth sports.
Peace, love and, in volleyball as in soccer, don’t duck.
Playing sports in 50MPH winds is the way we do it in ND
We headed to a rodeo in our town a few weeks ago. The blizzard that was forecast hadn’t fully set in yet, and so we put on our going to town boots, I curled the girls’ hair for under their cowboy hats and we all hit the not-yet-icy-road. This particular rodeo promised a set of cowboys and bucking horses that are the best in the country, and we wanted to watch one of our favorite cowboys ride. But Rosie, if you recall, declared confidently into the microphone to the entire pre-school graduation audience that she was going to be a trick rider when she grows up, so when we learned that this rodeo was bringing one in, well, nothing could have stopped us from the chance to see the brave woman in sparkly outfits flying around the arena completing death defying acts off the backs of horses on purpose. More commonly we find ourselves dragging off the side of a horse on accident around here, so we were intrigued.
Rosie, who recently lost a couple teeth, was feeling grown up and rich and so she raided her piggy bank and declared that she put $32 whole dollars in her purse so that she could buy candy. Edie didn’t pack a cent because she didn’t want to waste her own cash, but was totally fine with her little sister offering hers, confirming that there are two types of people in this world and I’m afraid I’m Rosie.
But when it comes to watching a woman in sparkly spandex standing on top of two horses racing through five flaming torches, I’m more like Edie—holding my hands over my eyes refusing to watch. The empathy that girl possesses for what other people might possibly be enduring is borderline debilitating. Turns out it also translates to the boy dancing with the rodeo clown in front of hundreds of people without shame or reservation, dropping down to do the worm in the dirt no less. Edie watched the entire thing through the crack in her hands, embarrassed for the boy who possessed not one slight inhibition.
Oh, I love taking my daughters out in the world. I love seeing what they pick out to wear and I love fixing their hair. I love to watch them experience something new and how they hold my hand in the parking lot on the way in, skipping along. I love when they see a friend of theirs or a teacher out in the wild and the questions they ask. I love that we all belong together and they seem proud of that, sharing popcorn and sitting on our laps. I know soon enough they’ll be borrowing the pickup to go to rodeos or basketball games or dances on their own, and Rosie will be driving and Edie will be covering her eyes and I will know it and so I’ll be worrying…
Because listen, on the way home we were playing “Would you Rather,” and I asked the girls if they would rather be a bronc rider or a trick rider.
Edie said neither.
Rosie said both.
So if you need me, I’ll be planning our next outing. I think this knitting class looks like a good idea…
Winter visited us again this past weekend, but spring teased us a bit the week before, so we know it can happen. This got me thinking about spring cleanup and all the little relics that are often left behind in the draws of ranches like ours, waiting to be repaired or picked up by the junk guy, but more likely just staying there for years reminding us of the time when we were younger and it ran.
Which got me thinking about my husband’s yellow boat.
The Yellow Boat
A few days of warm weather will get the plans rolling. And the smell of the thaw, the sound of the water, the blue sky and sun and things uncovered by melting snow had me poking around the place, in search of projects and things I could accomplish.
And in my search I stumbled upon one of the ranch’s most unique relics. Sitting next to the shop covered loosely by a blue tarp and snow turned to ice water is Husband’s yellow boat, the one he brought with us to the ranch when we were first married.
I want to talk about this boat because it’s almost April now and it’s time to start making plans to cast a catfish line, pull on some cutoffs and grill something already.
I want to talk about this boat because I want to talk about boy I once knew who spent hours in the garage with his dad, sanding, scraping, painting and turning the remnants of an old wood and fiberglass flat bottom custom junkyard find into a 11 by 6 foot piece of bright yellow marine-time dream come true with a 40 horse Johnson, quite a mighty motor for a boat that small.
A boat they were planning on turning into a legend, buzzing around Lake Sakakawea and turning heads.
And as soon as the yellow paint dried, that’s exactly what they did. Father and son proudly loaded it up in the trailer and headed to the big water, visions of speed and notoriety bouncing between them in the pickup before they plopped that boat in the water and squeezed in side-by-side, shoulders squished together, chins nearly resting on their knees, reaping the benefits of the many hours spent on dry land turning a relic into a masterpiece.
They pushed it to its limits, testing what it had, wondering if they never slowed down if they might just keep going forever, out toward the buttes that hold the lake in place, to the river and then into the ocean, a man and a boy in a tiny yellow boat they made together after the sun went down on their real lives and that boat turned into all that mattered between them…
But boys need to become men on their own time, so they brought that boat to shore so that boy could drive his old Thunderbird out of the driveway to the highway that would take him away and back again to live on a ranch by that lake with a girl who used to sit beside him in that old car when he drove too fast and played his music too loud.
But I never sat beside him in that yellow boat until one day I came home to find my new husband holding a fishing pole and a tiny cooler full to the brim with beer and a container of worms.
“We’re going fishing,” he said.
And off we went on a hot July evening, the windows rolled down on the little white pickup as we followed the prairie trail down to our secret spot on the lake below the buttes. The place without a boat ramp, a picnic table or any sign of human life…
My new husband and I pushed that little boat in the water, navigating the deep mud on the banks of the lake before we jumped in and sat back-to-back with our poles in the water, the little cooler on my lap, trolling the shores for hours without a bite before the sun threatened to drop below the horizon, convincing us to call it a night.
Funny how fast night came then when my husband, in an attempt to hook up that little boat and pull us all back home, backed up just a bit too far, and, well, there we were in our secret fishing spot stuck in the mud up to the floorboards, miles from the highway, cell phone reception, or any sign of human life.
And there are many relics on this place, old tractors, used up pickups, tires and spare parts that need to be hauled away and given new life. But over the hill in the barnyard, covered by a tarp and a fresh dusting of spring snow sits a little yellow boat on a little trailer that was never meant for fishing…in fact, now that I think of it, that boat might not have been made for anything really, except to be made.
I will be playing music and telling stories March 28 at 7 PM at the Fargo/Moorhead Community Theater in The Hjemkomst Center in Moorhead, MN. Tickets are $10 and can be purchased at the door or in advance at www.jessieveedermusic.com/shows Hope to see you there!
Heya! Happy Friday! I’m celebrating the weekend by watching the snow fall, practicing my set for a couple concerts across thestate next week (see you in Moorhead, MN?) and catching a rodeo in town on Saturday night. I heard there is going to be a trick rider and Rosie is PUMPED. (Because, according to her announcement at her pre-school graduation, that is her career aspiration.)
Recently I had the chance to sit down and talk to the brilliant and resilient Jackie M. Stebbins. I met her at a women’s writing event and in the short time we had together we could just tell we were cut from the same cloth. Jackie is a former accomplished attorney who operated her own law firm until her life was sidetracked by autoimmune encephalitis. Autoimmune encephalitis is a rare and can be fatal brain illness that is caused by a person’s immune system mistakenly attacking healthy brain cells. Jackie is now a writer and motivational speaker. She uses her high energy personality, positive attitude, and story to spread awareness about autoimmune encephalitis and to share her inspirational resilience.
Throughout my life as a writer and performer I am consistently reminded of the importance of sharing our stories, not just of hope and success, but of struggle. Jackie is honest about both and is using her struggle to help others feel seen and heard.
It’s hard for me to listen back to hear myself talk on these programs. But with Jackie, I was given space to really open up about how health struggles affect every aspect of your life, and the lives of those around you. She gave me that space and does so with others as well. I am proud of this conversation about music, motherhood, cancer and pushing through. Thank you Jackie. We could have talked for hours.
My dad lost his old cow dog, Juno, last week. After fourteen years of chasing cows through the draws, barking at squirrels and fighting with raccoons, howling with the coyotes and riding shotgun next to dad in the side-by-side, she took her last rest in her snug bed under the heat-lamp in the garage and didn’t wake up again.
Fourteen years is a long life for a ranch dog living wide open, tasked with the very thing they were bred to do. The job of moving cattle alongside the horses, chasing them out of the tough brush or keeping them motivated while moving pastures is dangerous enough, but add in the other wild and unpredictable things—a rattlesnake or a mountain lion, a truck driving too fast down our county road—and it’s not surprising that some of our dogs don’t live to be old and gray. But Juno did. And while she was with us, she was about the best dog there ever was.
I can say that, and you can believe me, because she wasn’t my dog. Everyone thinks their dog is the best dog, but everyone loved Juno and you would have loved her too. I held her tiny fluffy body on my lap in the passenger seat of my dad’s pickup when we brought her home from the neighbor’s. We had just moved back to the ranch for good and I was excited to have a pup around and just like that she belonged here the same way every animal has on this ranch (except maybe those two wild Corrientes that kept trying to run away to the badlands).
Anyway, dogs out here, they’re special, like an extension of our limbs when there is work to be done or fences to be adjusted or when things need to be checked. And so they ride along, in the back of pickups or in the backseat or, like Juno, right next to you in the cab of whatever you’re driving, bringing along the stink from whatever they rolled in and all the personality they possess.
These dogs, the blue heelers, the border collies, the kelpies, the Australian Shepherds and all the combinations there can be, they know why they’ve been put on this planet, and it’s to follow at your heels, from barn to house to shop to tractor to cattle pen to pasture to pickup to four-wheeler to horse pen to the ends of the Earth in case they can be of assistance, or annoyance, but always in the name of companionship.
Our neighbor had a big blue heeler when I was growing up named Critter. Critter’s place in the world moved up through the years from pickup box to shot gun seat until Critter and my neighbor could be found driving around the place practically cheek to cheek, the dog making a point every once in a while, to put his paw up on his human’s shoulder while watching the trail ahead as a sign of partnership and solidarity.
The other day I came home to find our two dogs in the house. We have a border collie/Aussie cross named Remi and a Hanging Tree Cattle dog named Gus. They’ve lived in the garage and in the yard their entire lives like most cow dogs do, so when they get to come inside, they’re not sure what to do but stare at my husband’s face and follow him from room to room waiting for a command. And I’m not sure why he decided to bring them in, other than he’s been working on the house addition for the past couple weeks and he just likes to have them close. When you open the door though, they can’t get out fast enough to go roll in the snow and pee on the trees and chase the squirrels and run out ahead and do the things dogs are meant to do. Honestly, I’d like to come back as these dogs in another life, to know so fully what it is that you’re made for is a gift that only humans can overthink and screw up.
Maybe we should work to be more like the dogs, more like Juno…Fluffy and affectionate, an easy keeper and ready to be there when needed (and even when she isn’t–cut to that dog showing up ten miles from home when you tried to leave her behind.)
Anyway, life won’t be the same here at the ranch without you Juno. Thanks for all the help.
Last night while I was folding laundry, my daughters wandered out into the living room on a pretend mission to escape something. Edie, my oldest, was dressed in overall-shorts with a little toy fox stuffed into her front pocket. Rosie, well, she was dressed as a granny, complete with big glasses, a bun, sensible shoes and a stick horse as a walking cane. I listened to their conversations a bit to see where the game was going, laughing to myself at Rosie’s grandma voice and her commitment to her character. When I asked her if they could stop for a minute so I could take their picture (they were so stinkin’ cute) Rosie replied, “Well, make it quick deary, my back is killin’ me!” Which tracks, I guess, for a granny.
So did the extra pair of underwear, flashlight and cardigan that Rosie packed for their pretend adventure. But what really put the whole thing over the top was when I looked to where they were playing in the kitchen to find Rosie snoring, eyes closed, standing up. Because, well, grannies get tired.
When these girls play, I tell you, they play. And it’s the best.
Because it’s their job.
When my first daughter was just a baby, I heard one of my more seasoned mom-friends say this in a conversation we were having about parenthood. In all the expectations we have laid out for our children, the schedules and the lessons and the homework and the chores, their number one priority should be to play. It’s a sentence that runs through my head when I’m feeling overwhelmed with the variety of choices for after school activities and completing extra homework, wondering now, especially as the kids are getting older, if I’m failing them by not putting them in travel basketball or hauling them to every youth rodeo in the region. It’s not how we were raised, but that was in the olden days. What are we supposed to be doing for our children now that we have access to a world full of expert and non-expert opinions?
Well, I have an opinion too I suppose, and it’s that the very best thing we can do for our children is to let them be bored.
Don’t get me wrong, I like a scheduled play date and paid-for weekly activities as much as the next mom. There’s a place for this on the schedule too. But the most fun I had as a kid arose out of no schedule at all, just an endless afternoon stretched out before me, with nothing but my imagination to fill it. But that was back before there was a choice otherwise. We had a handful of channels on TV and, gasp, we had to watch the commercial interruptions in our 30 minute after school episode of “Garfield and Friends”. Might as well just go outside and see what’s floating in the crick.
It happened fast, in less than one generation, but here we are raising kids in a world, where, if we allow it, they can be thoroughly entertained at every turn of a moment. I mean, has anyone ever found the bottom of Netflix or YouTube? Never. It’s up to us to turn it off so they can tune into that part of their little spirit that guides them toward an interest or a passion or, heck, just the opportunity to learn how to turn inward and rely on themselves in the quiet moments. More than my daughters’ basketball career or math grades, boredom is the thing I worry about failing them most.
Taylor Swift Concert…..
Now, I’m not saying that I turned into a professional fallen log fort-maker because of all the time I spent at the crick when I was a kid, but I did hone my songwriting skills singing at the top of my lungs pretending I was in a Disney movie where I had to learn to survive in the North Dakota wilderness alone. I learned that I like making up stories. And I liked performing, even if my audience was the squirrels I was terrifying and my little sister who was following a quarter mile behind me. And I learned it meant a lot to me to be there to witness every quiet turn of the season. It taught me gratitude. It taught me how to be alone and be ok with it.
Anyway, I realize I’m reflecting on this from a parenting perspective, but maybe even more importantly it’s a reminder to do the same for myself now that I’m a full-blown adult with adult responsibilities. Because in this season of life and parenting, boredom doesn’t exist. But it should. We should demand it of our lives as much as we demand anything else. I am saying that here to remind us all. If a kid’s job is to play, who said we had to take a promotion?
In a few weeks the weather will turn and I am going to put “wander the hills” on my to-do list. Because, like my daughters last night, I need the opportunity to escape in my mind once in a while. And lucky for me I was a kid in the ‘90s, so I know how to do that.
Chad and I are working to get our “Meanwhile, back at the ranch…” podcast back in circulation now that the house project is a bit more under control. Until then, take a listen to an interview I did about music and ranching and motherhood while I was in Elko with “The Art Box”
When my husband and I were freshman in college at the University of North Dakota, I used to visit him in his small, stinky dorm room in Walsh Hall and he would make me tuna salad sandwiches.
This seems like a silly way to start things off, but every single one of us is living in the ordinary, everyday moments here, and February has drug on and left us with March and more routine and I think there’s something to say here…
Recently, our little routine has been intercepted by a home remodeling project. Our plans, homework and furniture are covered in a layer of sawdust as the girls and I help my husband where we can between work and school, laying flooring, handing him tools, holding boards and picking playlists heavy on the Taylor Swift. He’s been working hard to finish a project that, for so many reasons, some in and some out of our control, has drug on through years. It’s finally the time to wrap it up and so here we are working supper around hammers on the kitchen table, and evening snuggles next to the table saw.
Take note of the fireplace ‘decor’
This house of ours seems to be a structure changing and growing along with our lives together. Maybe only a poet could draw the comparison eloquently, but when it was just the two of us, new in our marriage, it stood as a brand-new cozy cottage in this valley full of hand-me-down furniture and the dreams we had for our lives here. I remember the first night we spent together in this house. The waterline hadn’t been dug yet and our upstairs bedroom still had walls to put up, so we lived downstairs in what was going to be the guest room and we just laid there, side by side, looking up at the stars out the new window with no blinds.
Fast forward through the years and those two extra bedrooms are now home to dozens of stuffed animals, puzzles, games, art supplies, night lights, baby dolls, twenty to twenty-five Barbies, a couple Kens, one Christoph and their dream wardrobe/house/barn/car/camper. When we were in the planning phases of this house, we didn’t have children and I wondered if we would regret the staircase or the hardwood flooring if they arrived. Then my friend reminded me that they would only be babies for a blink of an eye, and that you make your space what it needs to be along the way. And so here we are taking that phrase quite literally, adding an entryway to catch the mud, cow poop and the occasional bottle calf at the pass. And we’ve added a pantry too, because out here so far from the grocery store you need to have more on hand.
Which led us to where we are now, expanding our living and dining room so we have more space to host gatherings and holidays, putting our bedroom back on the main floor and turning that old bedroom loft into an office space for all the paperwork that piles up when you find yourself smack dab in the middle of middle age.
It seems ridiculous and over the top when I lay it out here, our little cottage in its first form would have worked perfectly fine for us through any stage. But looking back, I doubt we could have helped ourselves given my propensity to dream and his to make things. And that’s how we’re in what is turning out to be, after all these years, a quite beautiful sawdust covered predicament.
Which brings me to the tuna-salad-sandwich my husband made last weekend during a break between laying the floor and me taking the girls to 4-H. I sat at the kitchen counter and talked with him about grocery lists and schedules and mundane things you only say out loud to someone you’re married to because they listen in a way that’s sort of not listening and that’s just what you need sometimes. While I chattered, he made his way around the kitchen gathering ingredients and carefully chopping and mixing—the tuna, the celery and then the onions, followed by the mayo, the mustard the salt and pepper and some other things I’m sure I didn’t catch. I looked up and joked, “you sure make a big fuss over a sandwich,” to which he replied, if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it right.” And it was that ordinary moment in the middle of February in the middle of marriage in the middle of our lives that flipped the mundane to affection and then to deep gratitude.
He handed me a plate with two slice of toast, and offered, as he always does, for me to serve myself first before he stirs in the jalapeños and I guess what I’m trying to say right now is that sometimes we look for love and forever in heart shaped boxes when maybe the best of all of it is hidden among the years of tuna fish sandwiches and saw dust.
That’s all. That’s all I wanted to say. If you need me I’ll be sweeping and then vacuuming and then sweeping again…
When we were kids, my little sister loved to go to town for one reason.
Sidewalks.
It seems silly, but, of course, we didn’t have sidewalks on the ranch. Every path was either made of crumbling and sharp pink scoria or dirt turned to mud. We weren’t much for rollerbladers or skateboarders out here, but we got pretty good at our bikes, because the alternative hurt quite a bit.
A few weeks ago we brought our daughters down to Arizona to meet up with my parents who are seeing who they might become as snowbirds. After last winter, my mom got online and committed the whole month of February to a house with a pool by a golf course in Mesa. And my dad wondered out loud for months what a person does in the desert for 29 whole days without cow chores.
Turns out for the first week you cuss that you’ve arrived during the only time it ever rains in the dessert. And the next week you grocery shop for the grandkids’ arrival and text the pool guy cause a 62 degree swimming pool is not necessarily “heated.” Not by Arizona standards anyway.
But it seemed like it was just fine for the North Dakota kids who packed their shorts sandals ad swimming suits and jumped right in, committed to summertime the way all North Dakota kids are when the temperature hits above 30 degrees after forty months of winter. White pasty legs be darned right alongside hypothermia. We’re on vacation people.
Anyway, I’m thinking about this as we arrived home a few days ago and got right back to the grind of home improvement (a.k.a trying to finish our three-year house addition project by laying flooring for days) and cow feeding and kid’s schedules. Funny how cold 20 degrees feels when you’ve been in the dessert for five days and know the real world awaits. How quickly we become acclimated to a new life where we are the family who lives in an adobe style house, doesn’t own coats, and walks to the coffeeshop in the morning. On sidewalks.
The first thing Rosie did when she got to that dessert house is assessed her boundaries. Because a kid who’s growing up on a ranch doesn’t really have many. For as far as they can see, the landscape is theirs. So, naturally, Rosie wondered why she couldn’t cross the fence into the golf course and check out the geese alongside the water fountain. And why she couldn’t play in the neighbor’s driveway. Or go and pet the other neighbor’s pit bull or run way ahead on our walks the way she does on the ranch, singing and spinning and paying no attention to the idea that a thousand lives are driving and living behind doors and windshields and fences alongside her. In our world, those thousands of lives she’s dancing by are living out in the open, under her feet, above her head and all around her.
It’s a strange thing to watch your country kids try to make sense of a city. And it’s another strange thing to be a country parent trying to take advantage of every morsel of experience we could find in that city for the kids’ sake. In the five days we spent in Mesa, we hit up the aquarium, the butterfly exhibit, the zoo and a little street fair. And in between we watched our kids swim in the 62-degree pool while we lounged in the tropical 70-degree sun, unashamed by our own glowing white (and thoroughly sun screened) limbs.
For us, simply being together in the warm sun was a luxury. Add some chips and salsa to that chilly pool and we were living the dream. If I asked the kids their favorite part of the vacation, that’s what they will tell me. The pool and the airplane ride. And maybe next the part where a butterfly landed on Rosie’s shoulder, and another on Edie’s shoe. And touching the stingrays at the aquarium. And then the weird monkeys red butts.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 