The Art of Barnyard Cussin'

Nothing can stir the soul of man, woman, or child more than an adventure on a Montana dude ranch where one can partake in piece of old west history called cowboy, and blend that with the great outdoors. That is the setting of the story to follow...

It was a beautiful, pristine Montana morning with the horses grazing peacefully about the meadow in belly-deep grass; the sun was rising up to kiss the mountain peaks with warmth. The morning campfire was crackling away outside the lodge, and awaiting the guests, was a fresh pot of cowboy coffee.  It was what we called "Wrangler Breakfast" morning, which entails your guests consuming their meal of steak, eggs, & camp spuds around the fire while watching the wranglers gather in the stock by horseback.  This was my job, and I loved it.  There is nothing like saddling up on a cool, summer morning and heading out to gather in the horses.  It's just you and your horse working together, and the feeling is indescribable.

I was the only wrangler on tap that morning, so I mounted up and headed my horse out the gate. The ranch owned about 80 head of horses and mules, and they knew the routine well of wrangling.  They usually did as they were supposed to, gallop gracefully to the barn displaying their athleticism and grace for the onlookers.  But, there were stragglers; defiant beasts that chose to head the opposite direction or hold their ground in a sweet section of timothy grass. This particular morning, they took a little extra coaxing.  I worked them back and forth across the meadow, pushing firmly but gently until they were in front of the lodge where they all chose to stop. They would take a few steps toward the corrals and barn, then stop and plant their fat faces in the grass. Any time I came near, they would pin their ears, whirl and kick, and circle back around to the tall grass. They knew they had the upper-hand.  After several minutes of this fun, I'd had enough.  My horse had lost any brain he had, my temper flared, and forgetting I had an audience, I opened up and aired out both lungs. 

Now, growing up in the barnyard, you learn the importance of which cuss words to string together to get the best bang for your buck, so to speak.  You don't just throw out the usual simple sentence enhancers. Oh no! You string ‘em all together at one time, so I did. And I enunciated every single word loud and clear.  I took down my lariat and connected rope with hides, let out another incoherent stream of foul language, and chased them in with all I had.  Apparently my crazed appearance was convincing enough that they took off to the barnyard, full-tilt. I cussed and yelled at them the whole way, all the while forgetting about the crowd of  adults, children, crew, and most importantly, my uncle & boss, that had now gathered at the edge of the front lawn to watch the show.  I slammed the corral gate, steam rolling, exploits blaring and stomped my way to the barn. There!  I'd showed them who was boss!  I went about unsaddling and caring for my horse, and huffed up the hill for breakfast with the gang.  As I reached the campfire and guests, I noticed it was awfully quiet upon my arrival. {gasp...insert scene replay & silent foul language.}  Me and my big mouth.  Head down, I grabbed a plate of humble pie and proceeded to politely shovel it in by the forkful, quietly.  As the lump of breakfast soured in my stomach, I was reminded that sometimes, silence is golden.  Will I ever learn?  Hell, no...

Welcome, Greenhorn

Let me preclude this story with a story... I have taken a step out the family business the past couple summers. My life simply took me in other directions, but I have somehow managed to burn up the road between Havre and Seeley Lake with the mad skills of a Nascar driver this summer. Although, Havre is starting to feel more like home, my heart belongs in the mountains. Always.  So, I soothe myself with quick weekend trips to help out and visit family when I can. This 30,000 foot view has given me a whole new appreciation for this operation, and the new guy(s) that are brave enough to accept the challenge of being new to the operation and riding for our brand. It's not easy walking into a family business like ours. 

As most of you know by now, I grew up working for my aunt and uncle's outfitting and guest ranch business in beautiful western Montana. Over the years, I had the honor of being graced with several titles: babysitter, shit shoveler, kitchen help, drag guide, aka the toilet paper (the last one a trail ride of 16 to shut gates, pick up dropped hats, reins, and bring up the rear), kids' camp counselor (there are still a few kids out there recovering from a week of horseback riding and camping with me talking to a counselor of their own!), and backcountry cook. (I use the term cook lightly. Hunger usually won out over taste the first few years of cooking!) 

Eventually, with a little luck, some 7 years of blood, sweat and tears, and a magical 18th birthday, I became a trail ride guide and eventually, barn manager. But never, ever, was I the greenhorn, the new kid on the block, the red-headed, bastard child that showed up in the barnyard with brand spankin' new gear of all the wrong sorts and a fresh tin of Skoal in my jeans.  I was never on THAT side of the fence in this operation... Thankfully...

The greenhorn is the guy that shows up eager the first morning all smiles with no idea of what's in store. His new hat will be deformed and made fun of. He will be the brunt of dirty barnyard jokes and shenanigans.  He will inevitably be drug across the barnyard by Spade, the mule, on shoeing day.  He will saddle horses wrong and get bitched at by second year know-it-all wranglers (usually of the female variety).  He will work from sun-up to sun-up, and meet his ass coming and going on the dusty trail.  He will never drive the truck with the horse trailer. EVER.  He will get the smartest dumb horse in the corral for all intent purposes of teaching him the ropes. He will ride drag behind the mules watching packs and eat enough dust to choke a horse.  If he has a lick of sense, he will learn to completely disappear on his day off if he doesn't want to be recruited for fixing fence, repairing tack or picking rock.  He will dig the latrine at every campsite.  His packs will have to be re-roped and slung correctly. He won't have much chance at socializing with the opposite sex, unless he has the pleasure of packing Miss Kitty, the ornery mule.  He will be teased mercilessly by the seasoned crew, and make all the same mistakes that those before him did. He will forget to close gates, and get to change flat trailer tires.  He will eventually meet the ground when ol' paint makes a high dive through the ground hornets.  He will hear the same songs in the breakfast line every morning, and he will eat more damn hotcakes than he ever thought he could. He will feel bruised, beaten, tired, and sweaty.  His hands will be calloused and his butt will drag.  But, at the end of the season, he will look back on it one of two ways... He may think this is the last year he ever cares to do this, to ride another horse or pack another mule or fix another fence. Or, he will know he's grown in more ways than he could have dreamed. He will have seen more miles of backcountry than most men will ever know about. He will hear the boss man's stories and poems and feel like part of the family. He will love pancakes of all sorts.  He will welcome hugs from the ladies in the kitchen. He will know each of the mules' names and their favorite spots to scratch. He will bond with the horse he's come to know over miles in the saddle, and lay claim to him for the seasons to come.  But most of all, he will walk back into his old life, reflect on the long days of hard work and his time spent at the ranch and be left yearning for more and wishing it were summer all over again.

See ya next year, greenhorn...

Splittin' the Seams

The woes of a 38 year old shopping in an 18 year old world…

I consider myself a comfortable and functional kind of shopper, and I highly dislike shopping for jeans; not nearly as much as bathing suits, but it definitely ranks right up there with waxing your lip, doing dishes, and paying taxes.  However, I do occasionally have to buy them, so I prefer to do my shopping at stores that sell clothing, tack, dog food, boots, feed, and beer (you know…one-stop shop).  That means the selection tends to lean toward functional. Until lately...

Recently, I was in my favorite store, and a bedazzled pair of ripped-out jeans caught my eye.  I thought, "What on earth possesses a woman to want to draw attention to her posterior with gothic crosses and sparkles?"  But after further perusing, I quickly deduced that this design was the only choice I had.  So, I grabbed a pair and headed to the dressing room, all the while my stomach turning at the sight of the price tag. In the dressing room, I stepped out of my duds, and pulled on the pants. Well, I tried to pull on the pants.  Now, I know that fat tends to rearrange itself from time to time, and I possibly ate ice cream the night before, drank a beer, and had sour cream on my potato, but I refused to blame my gluttony on the fact the pants were snug. I had the right size, right?  Tug. Pull. Squat. Suck it in. Wow, who knew it could be such a workout trying on jeans?  Upon searching for the button and zipper, (it was there somewhere) it came to mind that the backside felt a touch “drafty”. The tag listed these as “low rise”, which clearly meant that everyone else would get to see the moon rise. Not only were they “low rise”, they were tight AND sparkly, and created something resembling a “muffin top” out of my midsection. In fact, the idea of removing these pants quickly brought to mind opening a can of Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits. You know, the loud pop sound you get when you beat the tube against the counter?  Yeah… It wasn't going to be pretty. Clearly it would require just as much effort to remove these jeans as putting them on did.

Well, I couldn't get out of them fast enough! I was reminded this is exactly the reason why I don't like shopping for any sort of clothing in this day and age. I might not be in style, or be gracing the cover of Vogue any time soon, but the last time I checked, my horse didn’t care what I wore to the barn.

Happy trails and happy shopping…May you ladies be far more successful than I was!

Legendary Woman

“I figure if a girl wants to be a legend, she should just go ahead and be one.” ~ Calamity Jane

With all this recent news of men wanting to be women, and changing their names, and going from adorning the cover of the Wheaties cereal box to Froot Loops, I only felt it necessary to weigh in on this subject from a ranching woman’s perspective.  Now, if you are sensitive to these issues, chances are I’ve already offended ya, so don’t bother to keep a readin’.  I ain’t here to offend you modern-aged, equal rights kind, because I believe in some of those things too, but part of the cowgirl code is standing up for what you believe in, even if others perceive it to be wrong.  So, here goes nothin’…

In all my years growing up as a female in a man’s ranching world, there has been more than one time I wished I had the physical strength of a man.  Moments like swinging Big Bertha, the post pounder, into the rocky ground while building a few miles of fenceline, or clearing trail with a crosscut or axe, shoveling snow drifts, and packing mules all test a she-man physically. Ranch women don’t lead the typical urban female life.  In this lifestyle, men still physically have the upper-hand. I don’t pretend to have the brut strength to take on a mad bull, or pack out an elk on my back, and ride rough stock for the heck of it.

But there is a place where a woman, if she digs deep enough, has toughness to match her male counterpart.  It comes from the grit in her gut. I’m not referring to the grits she ate at breakfast.  I’m referring to her mental toughness.  A man may call it her crazy-as-a-mama-cow side, but when she taps into that strength, she leaves a man in the dust.  When she channels that crazy into productivity, she’s a force to be reckoned with.  She’s the woman behind the scenes, working long hours, matching a man stride for stride.  She’s the cowgirl that found a softer side to that raunchy little bronc that a man wanted to out-stout and muscle his way through.  She cooks the meals and balances the books.  She juggles kids, schedules, in-laws, outlaws, doctors sick horses, cows, kids, and dogs.  She pauses to enjoy the simple morning beauty and refresh her soul, and meets the day head on with a can-do spirit.  She’s earned every line, callous, wrinkle, and gray hair, and she doesn’t need a glamorous magazine cover photo to express how brave she is on a daily basis.  The bravest and most notorious things she accomplishes often go unnoticed or praised, and she likes it that way.  She simply is a legend without the world knowing.

So I tip my hat to the real women out there.  We weren’t created by some strange phenomenon or whimsical, magical surgery.  We earned every bit of our title, woman, and our place in this world is quietly legendary. So, go ahead and be just that.

~Happy Trails

Cubicle Cowgirl

This is for the cowboy and cowgirl in all of us...

The cubicle cowgirl… I have become her. Somehow, my new life has shaped and molded me into a wannabe professional wearing dress slacks in place of faded jeans, peep toe shoes take the place of muddy, worn boots, and my favorite cowboy hat hangs on my wall instead of my head.  Now I answer phones and sell internet service for a communications company. I answer the phone from 8-5 in my most friendly voice. Instead of gathering frost-back horses in the crisp, morning air, I tolerate being cussed at (karma may be turning the tables on me) for product failures and bill mishaps.  I sit and stare endlessly at a computer within 6 foot padded cubicle walls.  Gone are the mountain trails and pine scent summers I loved.   Some days I can’t find the room to breathe, and my heart feels heavy; my shoulders carry the weight of the world.  My saving grace is the laughter with my co-workers and friends I have made, and the breath of fresh air on my fifteen minute outdoor break.  The satisfaction of a hard day’s work outdoors clearing trails and hosting guests on horseback are faded memories, as I strive to find the deeper purpose of my new and improved life I’ve chosen.  This is the hardest job I have ever had, being something I'm necessarily not.

You see, cubicle dwellers, company CEO’s, doctors, contractors, they all used to tell me how lucky I was to live in the mountains.  I knew it.  I felt it.  Strongly.  I never thought I took my life growing up horseback in the mountains for granted.  Ever. The feeling of luck and love settled peacefully throughout me, and I let it seep into every fiber of my soul.  But the pull of real life had me feeling I somehow wasn’t doing all I should financially for my family.  I used to listen to guests tell me how lucky I was to not hear the sound of traffic and sirens, that my closest neighbor was miles away, that my children were growing up understanding the important ethical things in life; they were unplugged from devices and tuned into their surroundings. They used to tell me how lucky I was to have my parents and family around every day.  (There were days I begged to differ on that subject …haha).  I knew all of these things.

But now, the tables have turned.  I find myself thinking they are the lucky ones.  They are the people that were cut out to work in cubicles and high rises and hospitals.  That is the life they know and love.  They are programmed and hard-wired for the busy life.  They never expected to see a bald eagle soaring in the sky above, or hear the call of a bugling bull, or see new life come to pass on the ranch in the form of calves and foals.  They didn’t expect to look out a window and see mountain peaks or clear mountain streams.  They never knew the love of riding a horse full tilt across a meadow with the wind urging you to pull your hat down tight.  They didn’t see the hush of the land with the setting sun, or the dawn of a new day glancing off the dew in the meadow.  They feel content, while I feel restless. 

The perks of being a cubicle cowgirl with a little financial freedom and comforts are nice, but it doesn’t hold a candle to being the real thing.  I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or condescending, but I sure hope that trail comes back around soon…

~Happy Trails

Small Town America

I love being from a small town and community.  There is no place like home, but I love the commonality that spreads across each small town I have traveled through over the years. Ovando, Montana is the epitome of this.  I love that there are still places like this to share with my children; the hometown feel you get when you walk through the doors of a small café or general store.  I love that there is a “howdy” and a friendly smile from a stranger that make you instantly feel welcome.  These are the roots of America, and I am proud to be part of that.  So that is the story behind this story…

Small Town America

Somewhere across small town America, there are families still gathered on a Sunday morning in a church pew, thanking the Man upstairs for all the good in their lives.  There are old men, farmers & cowboys, coaches and dads, preachers and sinners, husbands and brothers gathered in a small coffee shop swapping stories about the latest basketball game played, about kids these days, days gone by, the crops in the ground, calving season, politics, and the weather.

Somewhere across small town America, there are groups gathering for the greater good of human kind, striving to be both.  They still work together to preserve and protect what is important, raise money for those in need, meant for a hand up, not a hand out.  There are not agendas or ulterior motives, but simply effort made for the greater good.

Somewhere across small town America, there are still grandmothers sharing recipes, baking cookies, delivering hugs, and praying for family.  They still grow gardens with fresh vegetables, pluck warm eggs from the hen house, and prepare Sunday supper from scratch.

Somewhere across small town America, there are handshakes still exchanged, a friendly wave from behind the wheel of a truck or tractor. Respect and morals still have value; where you honor your word given.  There are still people willing to work hard every day, getting dirt on their hands and under their nails, and willing to give their neighbor the shirt off their backs.

Somewhere across small town America, man is still a little more connected with their fellow man.  The cell phone service is sketchy at best, and nobody owns a dumb smart phone.  They still put a stamp on a handwritten letter to mail to a friend across the miles. The TV is turned off and families are tuned in around a dinner table at night, talking about their day.

Somewhere across small town America, the roots of good work ethic and honesty run deep.  Men are still men, and women are honored for more than the value of their looks.  A place where you are judged on your honesty and word, not your religion, your skin color, gender, or last name.

Somewhere across small town America, soldiers and veterans are honored for serving their country and the sacrifices they make.  Teachers teach American history and honor the Pledge of Allegiance and salute the flag.

Thank God for small town America.  It is our job to uphold her, teach other generations the value of hard work, time unplugged from technology, spend more time outdoors exploring, instill a little less sensitivity and political correctness and a better sense of humor, and show appreciation for the freedom that rings.  Look around your small town, and honor the foundation of it, those that had grit to establish it, and remember the blood, sweat and tears it took to build it.

God Bless small town America.

Wake Up

Wake up. Your soul, the girl you used to be, the one you always wanted to be…she is talking to you.  She has asked quietly, politely knocked, sought you out, but she’s screaming at you now.  She’s tired of being confined, restricted, and subtly restrained.  She’s there raw and naked staring back at you in the mirror. She’s asking “why”? Why have you ignored her? Why have you worked so hard to keep her in a tight lid box? Why have you put her on the back burner, ignored her uniqueness?  She’s here now… So listen.

She wants to write words that are worth reading and listening to, insightful and helpful.

She’s the one that wants to pass her days surrounded by those she loves deeply. She’d rather spend her time in the company of her horse, her dog, her family, and towering mountain peaks.

She wants to stare at full moons and starlit skies.

She climbs mountains the hard way, her way, to see the tops of peaks, to breathe air deeply until it fills her lungs with more than life.

She would rather be dead broke than live in a 9-5 that leaves her empty, and married to a mortgage payment.  Her bank account has nothing to do with how rich she feels.

She doesn't want to work and slave just to live when her body is too old and tired to reap the benefits.

She’s the one that likes good whiskey; the kind that too much is never enough of. She craves the smell of campfire nights and children’s smiles and small houses full of life.

She craves silence and solitude, but company worth keeping.

She’s music all the way down to her toes. She moves with it, lives in it, feels every word of it.

She’s the one that knew she didn't need a fancy degree to prove her importance, desirability and intelligence to the world.

She knows deep down that her worth isn't wrapped up in being society’s perfect picture. 

She accepts herself as is, fully flawed stitched together with good intentions.

She’s a woman of her word; not judgmental or angry.  She lets go of all the ‘right’ reasons, and with it goes the indecision within her.

She doesn't plan everything; she goes with the flow. She just simply lets go. She goes with her gut.

She trusts, she loves, she believes in miracles and dreams that come true.

She just is…

So, listen to her…she’s all you are and all you have the potential to be.

~Happy Trails

Lessons from a Horse

“We lose ourselves in the things we love. We find ourselves there, too.” ~Kristen Martz

When you think of learning the proverbial lesson, ones pictures themselves in a classroom with a human voice droning back at them in monotone levels about algebraic math.  I can honestly say that those lessons have been long forgotten, and I have yet to find need for them in my daily life.  The most memorable lessons I have learned have been taught to me by my children, my dogs, and last but not least, my horses.

These three are such true reflections of me and my actions; products of the environment they have been exposed to. If this statement is true, my border collie’s narcissistic, paranoid, obsessive, spastic behavior, my kids’ worry, their desire to please and be understood, and their excessive sighing and eye-rolling, and my horse’s need to be around others of his kind, work hard until the job is done, and lack of finesse or foresight of the outcome, and being driven by what’s for dinner, humbly remind me just how much work I have to do. (Did I just admit to a whole new level of crazy?!)  Possibly, but I am okay with that.  It just means I am willing to admit my shortcomings, reflect on them, and do better next time. 

Above all, my horse is my biggest and truest therapy.  Who knows which institution I would be in without him?  This is where the element of lesson enters in because when I am with my horse, I allow him to teach me.  I am, of sorts, his student, but also his partner.  This is when I have to let go of my control, remove all element of judgment against myself and my horse, and allow him to be an extension of me emotionally and physically. 

I am taken back to childhood memories of riding horses; when I didn’t overthink riding, or life, but simply rode for the fun of it.  Tapping into that as an adult is much more difficult, but when I break this lesson down into simple truth, it’s not really as hard as I make it.  These are just a few of the lessons I’m learning from a life with horses:

Respect: Everyone is different, every situation, every past.  Respect it all.

Forgiveness:  Everyone needs it at some point. Remove the element of judgment       because it’s not your job to judge, and the outcome is more harmonious.

Responsibility:  You and you alone are responsible for your actions. Quit blaming               others for the poor outcome.

Strength:  Mental strength is the most important and your attitude is everything.

Believe:  In yourself and your situation; you are worth the time and effort; be positive and stay that way.

Patience:  Accept that things can happen in a different order than what you have in              your mind.

Peace: Find it. You need it in all elements of life.

Hope:  Build your expectations on it and cultivate it.

Faith:  Have it and believe in your abilities and yourself at all times.

Love:  Above all else; never lose the ability to find love in all things in this life.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t always like what I see, but I know I have the ability to change it and do better.  I am ever grateful I have my horse as a reminder that I am a constant work in progress, but to recognize the victories no matter how big or small they may be. 

Merry Christmas From Our Home to Yours

As I sit here surrounded by opened gifts and shredded wrapping, sipping on hot coffee, I look outside and see my first brown Christmas morning; no snow to blanket the ground.  This is a year of many firsts for our little family, but mostly it is our first Christmas solely on our own.  I think about this and feel a little sad, a little lonely, and just a little blue. But, as I look around me, I see the smiles of my husband and kids and feel the warmth and love from them in the cozy walls of our little rental on 4^th.  Even the dog, Ellie, is excited with holiday spirit over her new tennis balls and chew toys. I know that I have so much to be grateful for, even with miles separating us from our normal and comfortable routine of spending the holidays with our family and friends.  I also realize that though we are not in the same vicinity of our loved ones, the familiar traditions and memories of days past flood in, and I know I am not really alone.  It is these memories that comfort me.

We spent last evening in a Methodist Christmas service, and the smells and surroundings of the church made me feel as if we are sitting in the pew with my husband’s family on Christmas Eve.  Their little country church in Pasco, Ohio, always felt warm and inviting; the wooden pews, the worn pages of the traditional hymnals, and the friendly smiles of country people. Here, in Havre, I saw the smiles on strangers’ faces and the welcoming handshake of the minister at this small church, and though I didn’t know a soul, I felt at peace and somehow just a little closer to them.

At home, I pull my favorite cookbook from the shelf; the family addition my Grandmother Helen worked lovingly to publish. I see her love for cooking and family shine in each recipe as I turned to the well-used page smudged with sugar, butter, and cinnamon.  It’s my Aunt Belinda’s recipe for Caramel Pull-Apart rolls, a Christmas morning tradition. I think of the family gathering later at the lodge in preparation for a family Christmas, the warm apple cider smell that greets your nose at the door, Uncle Jack’s bear hug and sincere love that you are there sharing in the day, and the laughter that will come later from games played and the silly white elephant gift exchange.

As the Elvis Christmas music plays softly in the background, I remember my Grandpa C.B.’s crooked smile as he sings along like he used to when I was a kid.  My Grandpa loved Christmas with family; the perfectly chosen and trimmed tree, the handmade gifts shared in love, and the surrounding of cousins, siblings, aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents.  This is where we learned respect and love and how to think about others and show sincere thanks as we shared around the tree.

I look at the ornaments on my tree; the collection my mom started from the first year I was born. They hang there reminding me of Christmas’ past. The soft silk of the Hallmark bulbs marking years, the collection of favorite horse ornaments, angels, and the hand-painted wooden sleigh. It brings back memories of decorating with my sisters and brothers, while Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton’s Christmas album, the Statler Brothers Christmas, and other old-time beloved songs played throughout the holidays. I think of sledding in the fresh-fallen snow on Christmas morning, and trudging out to feed the horses on Christmas day, and the welcoming nickers that greeted me. I think of how my parents worked hard to provide for each of us, to make us feel loved and equal, the Christmas morning spread fit for a king, and the family prayer said before the meal. I realize the importance of passing on these memories and traditions to my own children.

Lastly, I think of the familiar verses Luke in the Bible, proclaiming Christ our Savior was born.  Without Him, I would not be sitting here today staring out my window, coffee in hand reflecting on these memories.  I truly am blessed by Him each and every day.  I have truly great friends that have welcomed us here in this new place, a roof over our heads, food in the cupboards, healthy kids, jobs that continue to grow and give, and the gift of love this season, which is the greatest gift of all.

I wish you all the best this Christmas season has to offer and hope that you have loved ones to spend it with.  May you find comfort and love in your traditions and memories and remember to give thanks for those that continue to serve our country. But, most of all, remember the reason for the season. May that bring you true warmth, renewed life and spirit, comfort and hope.

Merry Christmas from our home to yours.

Santa...Baby

As the holidays approach, it becomes very clear to me the difference in how men and women approach the holidays.  A woman’s to do list is long, complicated and distinguished. We have kids’ holiday programs, presents to buy, a house to decorate, goodies to bake, weight to lose, hair to dye, and dysfunctional family gatherings to attend.  A man’s to do list is (wait…they have one?)  As much as I would love to morph into a man during the holiday season, and forgo unwanted stress and chaos brought on by the flurry of holiday shopping, Christmas music, company Christmas parties, and such, it just won’t happen.  So, I wrote you girls a little Christmas tune set to “Santa Baby” to hum while you go a wee bit crazy this holiday season.

“Santa Baby, slip a little wine under the tree, for me.

I’ve been just a little crazy this year.

Santa Baby, please hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa baby, I’d like to be alone for a moment, or two,

Somewhere my kids and husband can’t track? Is that really too much to ask?

Santa baby, so shinny down the chimney tonight.

Just think of all the crap

  I have to do.
Next year I could be just as sweet,
If I could get a massage from some hot Swede.

Santa baby, I want a rockin’ bod and really that's not a lot.
'Cause, I’m sorta tired of parts that sag and drag; Santa baby,
so squeeze on down the chimney tonight.

Santa honey, there's one thing that I really do need,
a beach – with a sweet, cabana boy and an umbrella drink, Santa baby
so send me somewhere warm and sandy tonight.

Santa baby, or how ‘bout a night of netflix and ice cream?
Or even some chocolate will do, Santa cutie,
and pop on down the chimney tonight.

Come and trim my Christmas tree
With some free time and extra sanity;
I think I really do believe in you,
So, let's see if you believe in me,too.

Santa baby, I forgot to mention one little thing, a brain, to remember every little thing,

Santa baby, so hurry your butt down the chimney tonight.

That’s right, I said get your fat butt down the chimney tonight.”

So, get on your fat pants, crank up the holiday classics, pour yourself a glass of red, pink, or white and unwind and enjoy your family and friends.  And remember girls, it’s perfectly normal to consume vast amounts caffeine and alcohol to ring in this holiday season.  You’ve earned every sip!

Old Harness

     Wishing all of you a peaceful Sunday and hoping you have time to reflect on memories of loved ones. It is not always easy for me to write about my grandparents because each one of us, kids and grandkids, have different and unique memories to share, and as with anything, there are always critics. But, I loved the time I spent with my grandpa in the barn, albeit too short at times. I didn't get a chance to learn teaming very well, and the team I speak of in the poem, Ham & Beans, I never knew, so facts may have faded to memories some when I write. But for me, it's the memories that count, and I write from the heart of those memories and the feelings they evoke. Here is a new poem I wrote for him to share with all of you. I am forever grateful to be a part of this amazing family. ~Heather

     My grandpa came from a long line of teamsters.  As he got older, teaming was one of his favorite passions because it allowed him to still feel useful and connected to his horses when he could no longer ride.  He had an eye for paint teams, offered community sleigh rides in the winter, shared his love of teaming to any of those that wanted to learn, and possibly, a few that didn't.  I can remember as a young girl, watching the strength of his hands work the lines of a six, four, or two up hitch with ease and grace.  I can remember feeding the stock with him a few times in the cold winter months with the sleigh; hay bunked high on the bed. The resounding jingle of the bells, the steam rising off the horses' backs, the smell of hay and the sound of them munching on grain in the crisp, winter evenings in the barn are ingrained in my mind.  I loved this time with him.   Years have passed, and now the old harness hangs dusty in the barn, and it saddens me to think of this lost art, the changes in time that have replaced the man and the horse with a purpose for work, with a machine all in the name of convenience...

Old Harness

In the barn alley hangs the old harness,

Its leather lines are worn and cracked.

There's dust gathered on the yolk and hames,

The silver buckles and white stitching have turned a faded black.

You see, it didn't always look this way.

It once hung proudly on a four horse hitch.

A pinto horse team that worked together,

That pulled o'er rock, meadow, snow, and ditch.

The memories flood back when I see it there,

And I can hear him talkin' to his teams,

As he harnessed up the big guys, "Easy there Pat & Mike,

Good boys, Ham & Beans".

The sleigh awaited in a skiff of new snow

In the barnyard's dim winter light.

He lead them out two abreast,

And hitched them to the sleigh just right.

The hired man stood at the head of the team

As Grandpa climbed atop the buckboard

I watched him skillfully take the leather reins in hand,

He called to his team of pintos, "alright boys, get up".

The blowing of noses, the rising of steam

As the hitch worked together in tow.

The sound of the runners and clank of the double trees,

While they trod their way through the snow.

I can remember looking up at him and smiling,

Listening to him sing his favorite tune.

The grin on his face and the twinkle in his eye

As he looked out o'er the harness lines in the light of the moon.

How I miss these days with Grandpa,

The work, the barn, the smiles, and the teams.

As I stare at the dusty old harness that hangs there,

I remember these days with dreams.

I quietly drift back to reality, 

Standing there in the barn alleyway,

A lone tear trickles down my face, I tip my hat to the man and his harness,

And the horses he loved along the way.

Small Minded Politics

“What this country needs is dirtier fingernails and cleaner minds.” ~ Will Rogers

What if our modern day politicians subscribed to this way of thinking and lead our country in such a manner? It seems as though society has gotten to the point where everybody has a right but nobody has a responsibility. Now, I like discussing politics about as much as I like scrubbing a toilet, (and maybe the two are kindred spirits), but I’ve never been too shy when it came to speaking my mind; I don’t suppose this topic is a whole lot different.  I figure if I shared more of what I’m for, there would be less of a need to state what I am against. So, here goes nothin’….

I believe hard work spotlights the character of people; some turn up their sleeves, and some turn up their noses, and some just don’t turn up at all. Hard work never did kill anyone.  I believe in giving a hand up to those that need it most, not for giving a hand out to those that waste their talents and strengths.

 I’m for kids that learn to respect their elders and for adults that respect the voice of a child.  I’m for kindness and respect to animals; they’re a true reflection of ourselves.  I’m for boys that keep their pants pulled up, and girls that show a little less skin and a little more self-respect.  I’m for men that open doors for ladies even though I’m capable of opening my own. 

I’m all for waving at a stranger on a back country road; it’s called being friendly and more people should try it. I'm for more dirt road and less pavement.  I’m for hot coffee in the morning, cold beer on a Friday night, and Sunday supper on the table shared with family and friends.

 I’m all for made in America, but America has to prove she wants to do it.  I’m for a little less Hollywood photo-shopping and a little more all naturel.  I’m for a touch more steel guitar and fiddle in my music, and a lot less disrespectful lyric set to the tone of rap. I’m for balanced use of land and natural resources, because there is both room and need for all. I’m for being less plugged in and being a little more tuned out.

I’m for small town Friday night lights and football games, and showing your community support. I’m for minding your own darn business; if you don’t see or hear it with your own eyes and ears, then don’t make it up with your small mind and open your big mouth.  I’m for a little less judgment of others, and little more for walking a mile in their boots. I’m for a good laugh at something funny, but not at the expense of someone else.

Politics are politics, and I doubt my thoughts or words will ever change that fact.  People will always disagree with one another, but at the end of the day, life is short, and one should live it as such. Success comes with failure, but you have to be willing to try, and the only constant thing in this life is change.  One has to be willing to grow, to work hard, and to change.  The most important things in life haven't changed in this country. It's still best to be honest, truthful, and work hard for a living; to make the most of what you've been given, respect your parents, love your family, and be gracious for all God's given you. And when things go wrong, you sleep on it, and wake up the next day ready to once again give it your all. That's strength, and that's faith. God bless America.

~Happy Trails

Tis the Hunting Season

Well ladies, it’s that time of year again. Your man starts wearing more camo, showering less, growing a mountain man beard, and his neck swells in preparation for his manly adventures into the woods.  Yep, it’s hunting season. And at the rate I clean the toilet bowl in my house, I’m hoping that his aim is better when a bull elk is in his sights.  And at some point, we always end up out there with them. Here’s a little story of hunting and marital bonding for ya…

I decided to spend some quality time with my outdoorsy man and joined him hunting.  Outfitted in his wool pants, 14 layers of polypropylene, wool, cotton, polyester, slick bottom boots, hat, mittens, and hunter’s orange and rifle, I felt more ready for a plus size Cabela's photo shoot than a day of hunting horseback.

We met up with our friend, Jon, at the barn, loaded our horses in the trailer and were on our way. Adding another male to the picture assured me of a very long day in the woods. There was a fresh layer of wet snow on the ground as we headed for the high country. We unloaded the horses in the dark, tightened cinches, and mounted up. Well, the boys mounted up. Somehow, I ended up with the tallest horse, too many clothes, and short legs which inhibited my swinging up into the saddle.  Four tries later at stabbing the stirrup, I found a stump to assist me in the mounting process.

It started out as a very crisp morning.  The sun glinted off the snow laden trees and hillsides. It was beautiful, and I let my senses take in my surroundings to keep my mind off frozen fingers and toes. This wasn’t so bad after all…

Hunting started out slow showing little sign of the elusive wapiti, and later, the weather turned, and snow was piling up heavy, wet flakes as we rode along steep side hills and ridges. I was feeling soggy, cold, and ready to head toward the truck when the guys cut fresh elk tracks. Men lose their mind over fresh elk tracks, and my gut told me my fun meter was about to be pegged. Time to buck up.  After two hours of chasing, the he-men decided to split up. Little did I know splitting up meant, "Here Heather. Hold our horses. We'll be back in 4 hours."

The guys later reappeared elk-less, it was still snowing, and dark was fast approaching. All the previous chasing left us on top of a steep beargrass ridge. My husband stated he knew a shortcut and my heart sunk.  I knew what "I know a shortcut meant." I 've been on these adventures with him when his testosterone kicks in overdrive. I look at him eyeballing his shortcut, which was straight down the mountain.  I felt the urge to deliver a swift kick to his groin. We dismount, because it's too steep to ride.  Trying to lead my horse down the mountain with soggy hunting clothes and slick rubber boots on, I found myself more on my backside than my feet. With every step I took, the further the guys were out of sight with their horses, leaving me with a frantic, snot blowing idiot. I finally reached the bottom and there were no men in sight. My Irish tongue and temper kicked in to overdrive, and I cussed my way down the mountain calling my horse and husband every name in the book.  To top it off, I need a pit stop. Now I get to hold my idiot horse, pull down fourteen layers of clothes, and avoid the inevitable.  I tried getting back on my horse, whom by now is a nervous wreck at being left behind, and tries to run away as I get on. I lost it completely and punched my horse in the face, jerked him down into a ditch to get on to catch up with the guys.  Jon looks back at me, and knows just by one glance, that I hate both of them.  My husband, however, knows as he silently rides along, that my eyes are boring holes through his head.  Jon finally manned up enough to state, "I asked him if we were going to stop and wait for you at the bottom, but he said, 'He** no! Can't you here how mad she is? Do you want to wait for that?"

At this particular moment, I did not possess enough middle fingers to express my love...

The day left us with no elk, no patience, and definitely no marital bonding…

Roots and Wings

Well, as most of you may now know, my family and I have packed up our home in the mountains of western Montana, and moved just a little further east to the farmlands and prairies of the hi-line in Havre.  You may scratch your heads and ask, “Why?” Trust me, I had the same thought, but one can’t spend too much time second guessing these sorts of decisions.

I have an adventurous side. I always have.  It may be my own curiosity, dreams I felt were unfulfilled, wanderlust, or what have you, but I like to think that it’s maybe just touch of my grandparents’ pioneering spirit that sparked my interest when this opportunity arose.  When my grandpa, a cattle rancher from the Billings area, decided to sell the family ranch in Dean, Montana and move his family to the snowbelt of the Swan Range, his family, too, thought he was crazy.  He didn’t care. He relied on his knowledge, strength, and courage to do what he felt was right for his family.  My grandmother, full of quiet grace and strength, humbly followed him in his vision for a different life.  They were pioneers in their own right, building an outfitting business and guest ranch in a land they knew little about.  They drew on each other’s faith, and that of the good Lord above.  They raised five children without the help of family, or the assistance from government.  They worked hard for every penny they had, the callouses on their hands, and the lines on their face.

They fell in love with the mountains, immersed themselves in hard work and building a community, fought through hard winters, and persevered through loss of money, family, and business.  But, they never lost sight of their love and strength of and for their family.  They instilled that in all of us. 

So although this move and change may be difficult, I feel this is truly the beginning of a new chapter of my life, my adventure.  It’s my chance to tap my pioneer spirit, draw on their strength and memories, and make memories of my own with my husband and children.  My grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles gave me strong roots that run deep, but they also gave me the wings to fly.  Life is truly what I choose to make it.  With all the wrong turns I’ve made, I’m finally right where I should be, and it’s a new peace of mind.

In closing, don’t forget what you’re made of.  Everyone has the equal opportunity in life to pull themselves up by their boot straps, no matter the situation, and make the most of this life given.  Be grateful for the hard times that carve out your strengths, relish the good times, and most of all, just live.

~Happy Trails~  

Beauty Fades

​I am straying from my usual ramblings this week about horses, mountains, and such, and delving into the unfamiliar territory of women’s obsession with the world of beauty, and being a thirty-something that is easily reeled in due to the first signs of aging.  Trust me, this is still a cowgirl’s feeble approach to finding her own way through this madness.

Women work overtime to keep the aging process at bay these days, and being pretty just ain’t real pretty.  First off, it’s tough to decide which beauty regiment to adhere to.  I found that it takes me so long to follow directions of the night time regimescrubs and lotions, that by the time I finish, it’s time to start the morning one.  And the term “beauty sleep” is just false advertisement.  Usually I need a coma in order to avoid waking up looking like a troll.

        Then there is hair dye. There are two approaches to taming pesky grays:  1. I can pay a professional a steep price, take in a picture of my favorite Hollywood glamour girl, and pray for miraculous results.  (The only way I will look like Ashley Judd is if someone staples the picture to my forehead!) Or… 2.  I can attempt this process myself by guessing what shade of box color to buy from the store. This is usually where I see a young girl with 40 shades of purple, black, and green, and decide walking away from the aisle is money well saved.

​The cosmetics aisle lures me in with promises of fuller lips, longer lashes, whiter teeth, better skin, and less hair in the places I don’t want it.  (This is the place my husband avoids at all cost and says he will be in the sporting goods section if and when I am ever ready.)  I walk out with volumizing shampoo, new tweezers, some sort of smoky shade of eye shadow, and teeth whitening strips, and broke.

Of course there is also exercise to take into consideration.  Long gone are the perky twenties, and I’m facing the falling forties and fifties.  This is when I find myself on the treadmill with bad knees, a popped lung and a skinny blond girl running Mach 1 next to me and wishing I’d given up ice cream and my delicious, morning, foamy lattes.

​I could go on and on about endless beauty options and ideas available these days that promise a youthful, firmer, more glamorous me, but when it comes down to it, I’m working on realizing that youth simply fades, but modesty and grace never grow old. Ladies, take the time to remember who you were before the world told you who you should be.  You can take no credit for your beauty at 20, but when you are still beautiful at 60+, you can thank your beautiful heart and soul.  We are the most beautiful version of ourselves when camping with our kids, smiling at our special guy, sharing time with our parents and grandparents, and just simply being us.

~Happy Trails~

Emmitt

Best of Friends

My brother, Ralph, age 17, was finally on his way home.  For a year and half, he had battled leukemia, and was returning from Seattle where he had received a bone marrow transplant.  We were in the dead heat of summer, guest ranch in full swing, and I was anxiously awaiting my brother and mom's arrival.  Six months earlier, I didn't know if I’d ever see my brother again. But as their car turned the drive, my heart filled.

Ralph stepped from the car and tears rolled down my cheeks.  He was home.  He stood before me pale and weakened from months of chemotherapy, radiation, and medication, but he was there alive, hat crooked sideways and a smile on his face. 

Summer rolled on, and Ralph became restless.  He had strict instructions to be careful in the sunlight; he had a weakened immune system susceptible to infection.  The barnyard was the last place he was supposed to be, but Ralph needed to breathe fresh air and touch a horse again.  During his treatment, his horse had gone lame, and had to be sold.  It was yet another blow, as Ralph loved his horses.

One afternoon lent itself to a car ride to town together.  I had some errands to run for the ranch, and Ralph decided to tag along.  We discussed girls, music, and inevitably...horses.  Our conversations frequently turned to the favorite subject; confirmation, bloodlines, dreams of owning a ranch. Stopping at a gas station, we picked up a paper to glance over horse ads, and one piqued our interest. The errands would have to wait.

 We drove along looking for the correct address.  As we pulled in the drive, two chestnut horses picked their heads up, watching us as we got out.  The older of the two approached us at the gate, the younger observed from a distance.  The owner greeted us, carrying a halter with her.  Catching both horses, I asked questions, and looked them over.  The younger one, "Cruz", caught my eye.  As Ralph pet the younger of the two, he looked at me with that crooked grin.  The horse turned to sniff at him.  At that exact moment, I knew this horse was coming home with my brother.  Cruz had been a college girl's project at Montana State, and she now needed the funds to finish school.  If we weren't sold already on his looks, his disposition had us writing the check.  Cruz came home with us.

Cruz’s name was changed to Emmitt via a long discussion of names on that car-ride home. Emmitt stood for Emmit Smith, Ralph’s favorite childhood football star. And it fit.

 As we pulled in the barnyard, we were welcomed by Mom, Dad, and the whole ranch gang. Everyone knew what it meant to Ralph to have this horse.  I was able to be a part of something special.  I couldn't be there for Ralph during his treatment, but I could be there to start a new chapter of his life. 

It's been years since that day Ralph met Emmitt.  It's still one of my favorite memories with Ralph, and their relationship still grows to this day working cows in Florida.  It’s a partnership built on bull-headedness, heart, understanding and true grit. And it’s my favorite story of a man and his horse.

Ode to Equipause

For my fellow horsewomen…

My Uncle Jack Rich, first introduced me to the term, equipause.  Definition: Noun.  A duration of time from when a girl first discovers she has an intense love for all things horse. It effects women from the age of 1 to 90 and there is no cure. It’s something most men won’t get. Equipause is expensive; it requires several horses, trailers, saddles, riding lessons, and barns.  A woman’s love for her equine pal will leave a guy scratching his butt and winding his watch.  Women may go gaga over puppies, sunsets, babies, and old couples that still hold hands, but there is nothing that quite enthralls a girl like her love for a horse. 

 

 A true horsewoman spends more time thinking about her horse than a man actually spends thinking, I think.  But if a man understood what that horse does for her, he would never question it.  Her horse teaches her lessons that no parent or teacher ever could.  Her horse is her best listener of thoughts and worries, and is the keeper of her secrets.  Her horse gives her wings to fly and makes her smile.  Horses help her see that hard work really does pay off in the end.  Her horse strengthens her soul and helps her face fears she thought she could never overcome.  Her horse is her peace and solitude when nothing else seems right.  The feeling she has when she rides, she can’t explain; all she feels is free.  In her mind, she’s that ten year old girl again riding bareback across the meadow.  Her horse is her travel partner over miles of rough trail in life.

 

In the end, you can’t put a price on that.  It’s worth every nickel ever spent.  A little note to the man that marries a horsewoman with equipause; don’t expect her to change because you knew she was crazy about horses when you met her.  And if you ever can’t find your girl, check the barn.  There’s a pretty good chance you will find her there with her face buried in his mane.  She’s there for the peace it brings her at the end of the day, and for the love she gets in return.

 

So thank you to my horse, Twist for what you give me each day.  I never want to outgrow that “horse phase”, and I pray to God I never do.