Where everybody knows your name, except the opposite.

Yes, I love small towns.  Yes, I like living in the country.  And no, I haven't daily put myself out in the community.  But shoot!  The process of making friends and creating community has failed to be a fast moving train.  Everyone knows those big trains take a lot of energy to get started.  It's called Inertia and if you were one of my students, you'd know Newton's 1st Law of Motion describes this property of matter.  Basically, if you're stopped/stalled/not moving, it's going to take some force to get you moving.  The bigger you are, the more force it will take.

In light of the world news, of Boston, Texas, and other places where peoples' problems are way bigger than mine, I feel like complete idiot for even feeling sorry for myself.  I had an especially large self-pity party yesterday.  Boohoo, I don't really fit in anywhere. Boohoo, the Meetup group I was so nervous to join cancelled their event.  Boohoo, I don't have any friends, I don't have a job, and they won't let me get a library card because I live in the wrong county!  (I don't know where the bookstores are either.  Salt.in.wound.  Boo freaking hoo.)

And then something sweet happened.  I checked the mailbox.  In it was a postcard from a friend in Boston (BOSTON, of all places this week!)  It was a reminder that yes, I DO have friends.  I DO fit in.  I am loved.  I mean, duh.  And that's what the end of a pity party feels like - "DUUUUH.  You're fine."

So today I'm grateful for Adam who gave me a big push forward.  I'm grateful for my dogs who know when their sloppy dog kisses are needed, for phone calls with mom, and for Murphy the mule who made it clear that all he wanted in life was to be near me during chores.  And for my husband and his family who keep me laughing every day about stuff that really matters, like even though blowing your nose into a hankie is super gross we should probably use them anyway and how the heck are we going to cut the top off that horse trailer?  Ya know, good stuff.

The good news is that we're all loved, all the time.  God is pretty incredible like that.  (note-to-self for next pity party)

The other good news is, once you're moving, (according to Newton) it takes less energy to KEEP moving.  And you're even harder to stop.  It's all physics.  Nothing special, nothing to get all emotional about, just physics.

For the Love of Small Towns

You know you're in a small town when you can't go to the post office at noon because she's out for lunch. You see, although Rapid City is a bustling and growing city (70,000 people, 100,000 in the "metropolitan" area), we don't live there.  We live in the suburbs, sort of.  We live in Black Hawk, population 2,500.  Actually, I think we live in the suburbs of Black Hawk.  I don't even know.  There's not a comparison I can make like, Maple Grove is to Minneapolis as Black Hawk is to Rapid City - the boundaries are less defined and certainly less important around here.  It seems like everyone is just happy to be from the hills, whether or not you're even FROM here.  If you're here, you're one of us.  If you're not, you should be, and we like you anyway.

I always wanted to live in a small town, but in the country, but with a bigger city that has community and good Asian food.  This combination didn't seem likely, but as it turns out, I got just what I wanted.

Small towns consistently make great storytellers.  While not a great storyteller, I'm able to identify one from a mile away.  Janna's fiancé, Dan, is from a small town in Wisconsin (life is easier with another Sconnie in the house).  His storytelling has excellent delivery, great attention to detail, and amazing Sconnie dialect to boot.  Here is one of his stories, paraphrased and reproduced without permission.

Well, my grampa had diabetes and when he was 80, the doctor wanted to take off one of his legs.  He said, "The hell yer taking my leg!  Goddamn doctor..." and he wouldn't let the doctor take his leg.  So some years later I took grampa out huntin'.  I think he was 94 or something.  I pulled him in on a toboggan to his spot, ya see because the snow was up to here.  We got him all set up and then I went to my deer stand a ways away.  Awhile later, I hear 'boom, boom, boom,' and thought, "Geez grampa's, losin' his touch."  Ya see, Grampa never had to shoot more than once to get a deer.  So I waited a bit, got down and headed over to his spot, but when I got there, he was gone.  But I could follow his steps in the snow, ya see, and it led me to Grampa kneeling down, guttin' a deer.  I said, "Grampa, I heard you shoot THREE times.  Finally got it, eh?"  "Yup, " he said, "and there are two more over there so get busy."    

This is how I've always imagined my life; good stories, comfy nap spots for all, and a warm fire.  All taking place in a small town, sort of.

Things to do at Rockin' J Ranch

Instead of telling people I live with my in-laws, I'm going to tell them I live on the Rockin' J Ranch.  It's true, and it sounds super cool.

This week will feature what there is to do at the Ranch.  Here are your guides:

Tugs (novice ranch hand)

Katie (master chicken killer)

Mia (deer chaser, extraordinaire)

Hank, who is still pouting over the arrival of other dogs, is currently keeping his distance from the camera.

Play hide and seek with new friends to keep your senses sharp.  

Chase as much stuff as you can.  The deer are aplenty but Tugs will do for practice.  

Check on the horses.  Don't chase the horses.  

Although it must be tasty, eating too much horse poop will get you in trouble.

 Run whenever you feel like running.  Take care when running through fences.  

Enjoy the sunshine.  Be joyful, always. 

Depressing post with a hopeful ending

When I signed up to move to a new state, I was hoping for an adventure but was skeptical.  When moving into your mother-in-law's basement, how crazy can it really get?  I should have known better.

Adventure:  noun.  An unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity  

Hazardous?  Until last week, "adventure" just meant something fun.  Probably should have Googled it earlier.  Here is how this particular adventure went.

Friday - day before moving
- find out Rosa is sick, nothing we can do until we get to South Dakota
- on the phone with Matt:
"Matt, so I went to check our UHaul reservation before I picked up the truck today and guess what?  YOU SCHEDULED IT FOR TOMORROW!'"  (crying ensues)
"Oh, whoops.  Sorry honey."
"I can't do this alone anymore!  I need you here!" (more crying)
"Ok, I'll call them.  It will be ok."
"ARE YOU SURE?!" (more crying)
"Yes."
(it was ok)

Saturday - moving day
- lots of rain, pack a chicken coop into a UHaul & chickens into the car, leave our first home.  (no crying)
- more rain
- detour
- snow/blizzard
- headache/runny nose
- 8 hours of driving = half way (total distance should = 9 hours)
- take 2 dogs, 1 cat, 3 chickens to friend's house to spend the night

Sunday - 2nd moving day
- blowing snow
- fishtail and spin off road ('whippin shitties' as we call it Up North) into ditch against the guard cables
- crying
- more crying
- conversation with Matt who has to turn the UHaul around to get his wife out of the ditch:
"I don't want to move here any more!  I hate this State!" (sobs)
"Oh honey."
- reevaluation of previous statement after stranger runs through the snow to help push us out
- State doesn't seem so bad
- Matt insists I drive the UHaul.  It's loud, wobbly, and big.
- 2 hours worth of crying
- blowing snow continues (still evaluating the State)
- sky turns blue, air becomes warm
- arrival at new home
- chicken coop unloaded with love by smiling family
- State seems a little nicer

Monday
- Rosa passes away
- lots of crying
- State definitely has it in for me

 Fast forward to Thursday (Tuesday and Wednesday were boring and contained a fair amount of crying).

Thursday
- wake up with the house for smoothies and coffee
- feed horses alone during sunrise
- walk with mother-in-law and doggies
- no crying
- person and State accepting one another






It's been said that what is important is the journey and not the destination.  I call shenanigans!  While the journey here kept getting worse and worse, the destination is getting better and better.  And that is where we find the hope, as promised.

The memories of a hoarder

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm a hoarder.  Not enough of one to have a reality TV show, but enough of one that you might look at my house, pause briefly, and raise your eyebrows.  I say this because today, as boxes were assembled to the rip-ripping of packing tape and belongings were carefully packed into them, I started to cry.  It wasn't because we're moving to a new place and won't have many friends, or fear that my body will reject South Dakota in a fury of mucus and itchy eyes, or even because at 31 years of age, I'm moving in with my mother-in-law.  I cried because I love my stuff and won't see it for awhile.  And that is why I think I'm a hoarder.

My stuff isn't just a collection of material things; it is a collection of memories attached to physical objects.  My memories are precious to me; to be surrounded by goodness is what makes me feel at home.  The blue and white tiled side table next to our couch was a Craigslist find when Matt first bought his house and needed some furniture.  It held leaky pens for bill paying, my thyme plant from which many meals are seasoned, and the stud finder for house projects.  I like to try and give Matt an ego boost when I sweep it in front of his body, make it go beeeep and say, "Ooooh!  Found a stud!"

Two canvas paintings are carefully packed away; they are reminders of a Halloween party we hosted where guests painted and sculpted in the garage.  It was also the Halloween that Matt dressed as a Flag Girl (to accompany his Band Nerd wife).  That is something I definitely don't want to forget.  But will I forget that he is brave and willing to try anything, especially if it makes me laugh?

Little green shelves were packed too.  They were handed down from Kara, who always inspires me to keep sewing.  Will I be inspired when it's not on the wall next to the sewing machine?  While in college, Anna was studying in Tanzania and picked up a beautiful wooden figuring of a mother and child dancing.  She knew I wanted kids someday and wanted me to dream about them.  Will I forget her thoughtfulness because her gift is now wrapped in the comic section of the Sunday paper stuffed in a box?  And then there is that cozy blanket given to me by someone I hurt in the past.  Will I forget what it feels like to be mean?  Will I forget what humility and forgiveness looks like?  What about pictures of friends we're leaving?  Will I forget them if their faces are not looking back at me each day?

If I'm without all those memories, who am I?  Who am I to become?  That is probably what scares me the most; not knowing what life is going to be like after all the material stuff is gone (in storage).  Will I be able to stand on my own two feet on someone else's kitchen floor?  (because mine was put in lovingly by Matt and although it's cold, it's beautiful.)  When I can feel secure about the unknown future and am content to be without my stuff, that is when I will call myself a healed hoarder.

For now, I'll throw the fear about moving into the recycling bin (it will come back in a different form soon enough I'm sure).  I'll wait until the last minute to wrap my favorite coffee cup (it has a picture of my nephew Zachary on the side), and when the tears start to fall, I'll pack them carefully into a box with the rest of my beloved stuff.

A (melancholy) birthday poem

The leaves on the (dying) trees are brighter today.
The air from the (toxic) sky is crisper today.
The rays from the (UV laden) sun are warmer today.
Your (barely aging) face is still sweet.
Your (nearly graying) hair is still messy.
Your (bleeding-from-work) hands are still gentle.
I'm glad today (you were born.) is your birthday.
You make (the death in my) days bearable.
You bring joy to my (dull) life.




It was Matt's birthday last week.  This means it's October; the beginning of falll, the end of any possibility of just one more glorious summer day, and the end of my beloved garden...(insert stifled sob).  I start to think about Matt's 32 years of life so far and I mourn for the ones I wasn't a part of.  It sounds silly really, because he might not have turned out to be my awesomely wonderful Matt, had we met previously.  But I start to think about our future as a couple and understand that we might not always be in good health.  One of us will probably outlive the other by a number of years.  One day we will wake up and realize that our bones ache, our steps have slowed, and one of us has lost most of our hair (and I'm really hoping that "one" is not me).  We will no longer be able to run marathons, stay up late for hammerschlagen at bonfires, and our bodies will have changed into, um, less sexy versions of ourselves.  It all sounds so terribly morbid and depressing and oh my gosh how do you get up in the morning, Meredith?!

Don't worry, it's all good.  Because I'm a total sentimental mental case, I totally and fully, love every single second with this man (except those single seconds that I don't but they're in the minority and so they DO NOT COUNT!)  I am grateful for things (like fall, and death, and change) that remind me to appreciate the people I love, to be thankful of how life turns out (or doesn't turn out), and to look bravely ahead, semi-optimistically.

It's October; time to snuggle into my sweet little house, tidy up my dirty fireplace, and enjoy the warmth of my furry and non-furry favorites.

Colors of a summer kitchen

                                                              

I've been really in love with my garden this year.  So in love in fact, that I have failed to properly document it, like a good parent should!  Photos have been taken but not posted, dated, or labeled.  Ah well.  More to come, but for now, a taste of a few hours in my summer kitchen.   

I feel much like a 50's housewife might have felt, and it feels good.  It feels good because it is a choice, not an expectation.  I am grateful for all of the women (and men!) who have made that choice possible.  This afternoon there was a screech of tires outside and to check to see that everyone was ok, I ran out in my polka dot apron, hair pulled back with a headband, hands red from the beets.  I may as well have been carrying a meat cleaver and dragging a dead goat because the totally chic metropolitan woman walking by was taken more aback by the sight of me than the sound of the screech.  Such is life in my neighborhood.

But the neighborhood has been good lately.  After our block party for National Night Out, neighbors have been out and chatting one another up more than usual.  We received smiles and waves from the folks that live in "that problem house".  Tonight is another neighborhood concert.  Let's hope the sweetness from this lasts through the cold autumn days when we start to mourn the long, warm, sidewalk chats about the status of the cucumbers, how many miles we're running today, the latest yard project, and oh did you see that suspicious vehicle parked here this afternoon and I called the cops too.  

To help the summer love last all year, today I canned beets, made pesto, and pickled peppers.  There is so much to learn about something it seems we should be brought up knowing how to do.  I love learning from my grandmother and love using jars she has probably used for decades.  It just seems right.  I also love thinking about feeding my prized produce to my beloved this winter.  WINTER.  Ack.  That pesto, though, will remind us to enjoy our days, whether they be warm or chilly, because they go by oh so fast.

For now, I'll grab my dog and go for a run before the concert in the park.  Maybe I'll see some neighbors and ask about the cucumbers.