from the prairie's edge: road kill, finding girls, mickey mouse watch man, the coming winter

Why did the chicken cross the road?
   To get to the other side.

Why did the frog cross the road?

   He was stapled to the chicken.

- elementary school

While we're in North Dakota, I think I'll call these long, varied updates, as well as region-specific posts, "from the prairie's edge," eh?
 

My mother-in-law, Barb, was amazed by the quietness and isolation each of her nine days here. She lives and works near D.C., where the traffic can keep you for an hour from your destination two miles away. We shook our heads whenever we saw on the road a dead gopher or bird, who would've had like 23 hours, 59 minutes, and 30 seconds of the day when no vehicle would've crossed its path, but instead chose one of those rare, fateful seconds to make a run for it.

This snake doesn't qualify as road kill, really, because it was still alive.
It was real slow, probably a victim of road glancing.
I wouldn't post actual road kill on my blog. Sheesh.

Jason is having a blast teaching Kaladi to "find the girl." Kaladi seems to love search work, and she's kicking tail with very little training. She naturally ground tracks, which means she follows the scent someone has left behind while walking. Some dogs naturally track by sniffing the air, which isn't as good for a lost person, because they're reliant on wind conditions. Maybe they're better at sniffing out drugs. Anyway, Jason shuts Kaladi in a room in the house, and he has Zoralee walk to some location on the property and hide behind a garbage can or a building or a bale of hay. Then he lets Kaladi out and tells her to "find the girl" or "find Zoralee." She puts her nose right to the ground, gets on the trail, and RUNS to her. Zoralee then drops a treat for her and says, "Good girl! Good girl!"

Blue. Every day at my house, six blue eyes look back at me. Eight, if you count Little Lamb, Zoralee's favorite stuffed animal.

Mickey Mouse Watch Man. We first encountered him at Walmart a few weeks ago. A jovial grandfather type, he walked up to Zoralee and put his wrist right in her face. He stared at her intently with a huge grin, practically bursting with anticipation at her response. He was showing her his Mickey Mouse watch. And she was a deer in the headlights. She doesn't tell time yet and isn't super familiar with Mickey Mouse; anyone else in the store would've been more impressed with that watch than she was. But it was no matter. He was delighted. Laugh and laugh did he. Then last week, he saw us again - by the meats at the local grocer, and just as eagerly showed her his watch. We saw him again near the spices. Then at produce. Each time, he said hello to Zoralee most cheerily and laugh laugh laughed. This time she laughed too. But things turned serious, DEATHLY SERIOUS, over at produce, when his wife, Janet, said she'd heard about a melon recall on the news. Best to avoid melons, we all concurred, at least for a little while. Lots of serious head nods and squinted eyes. No joking around about that. 

And speaking of local flair, when we were driving through one small town, we picked up their local newspaper. A couple of the highlights are as follows. The front page news was that the paper will not be printed in color for some time; the guy who did that has quit. Very cute, and sad. Also, the reports from the surrounding towns are mostly who went to whose house for supper. I quote (with names changed): "Donald and Edna Verhorn were Friday visitors of Pete and Joann Sanders." I'll tell you one thing, I better not hear these old-timers moaning about privacy lost via social media. Hello. These are totally status updates, but put into print, albeit several days later.

*   *   *

Fall is upon us, no question now. Last week we woke up to a downright chilly house, and it lit a fire under each of us independently to shape up and get ready for winter. The voice of Elephant from Mo Willems' I Am Invited to a Party! keeps haunting me: "WE MUST BE READY!" So I bought canning jars in town for putting up the crab apples in the yard. Aaaaand, that's it. That's the only canning plan I have; if we get stranded out here, it's apple pie 'til spring, baby. Unless I send Jason out on snow shoes to fetch a can of cool whip. Then, it's apple pie and cool whip 'til spring, baby. Oh. And while you're at it, honey, grab some Cream Soda - that's what I'm talking about. That same day, Jason took off work early to come home and cut wood. Little update: we have now had freezing weather a couple of nights, so the apples are mushy. I missed the window to can them. Ridiculous.

The thing is, Jason and I are actually excited for winter. We don't say this when the locals lament the departing summer, but since we had that stint in south Texas before this, we're basically coming off a whole year of summer. We both like power outages and crazy storms and having to cancel plans and hunker down, so a winter here on the frozen plains could be fun! It feels like, if we're going to avoid a Donner party type situation, we better know what the heck we're doing.

At this juncture, I'm going to enthusiastically recommend a children's book called, Ox-Cart Man. It'll get you excited to stack wood and can beans for winter, as well as plan needlepoint projects to sell next summer in nearby villages. Not the catchiest title ever, unless you're in a sarcastic mood, but Ox-Cart Man is a right dandy story! We have it from the library now, and it is definitely one I'd like for my kids to own. Ahhem, Grandma or Nana, givers of Christmas presents. Even now, I feel like a dimwit spending time on the internet instead of dusting off the old loom and spinning out a few shawls.

While we were in Montana last month, Jason got a wood stove, which we hauled here to ND, along with the 800 pound beastly upright piano I inherited from my great-aunt Wilma a few years back. Mom and Dad cried and cried to see that dust collector leave their basement, but boy was it a nice wagon trainy feeling to bring it and the stove to our little house on the prairie. Jason finished installing the stove a couple of week ago, and we've been enjoying it so, so much. We've been disappointed when the weather pendulums back to warmish. I know - we should be slapped.

from the prairie's edge: big, deep day

"O bury me not on the lone prairie."
These words came low and mournfully
From the pallid lips of the youth who lay
On his dying bed at the close of day.

- old cowboy folk song



This day, the day of which I now write, happened almost a month ago, but it felt like enough of a doozy to lay down on Blogville. It was while Barb was here, and it was extra thick with profoundness. We sloshed through the realms of theology, history, the cycle of life and death, and physical survival against wild animals, walked on the border between two countries, and closed out our day with a tradition as old as man. By day's end, my head was spinning and my heart heavy, so it must've really been something for a two and a half year old. I should record it in Zoralee's baby book as "The Deepest Day Ever." That is, when I [cough] start working on her baby book...

The first thing happened while I was sitting on the porch with the kids. I was holding Ziah in my lap, and Zoralee was ahead of me by 10 feet. Out of the woods at the edge of our yard jogged a coyote, straight for the porch, straight for Zoralee. I told Zoralee (firmly, but I thought pretty calmly for the circumstance) to come to me, which she inexplicably did at warp speed, though she hadn't seen the coyote. He was gray white, so fluffy and healthy. My first thought was how beautiful it was. He heard my voice, looked straight at me, turned, and jogged back down the path. He was within 25 yards. As soon as Kaladi caught a whiff of the coyote, her hair went up and for 10 minutes she alternately ran around the property and back to check on us. The wind was so strong, loud and swirly, that I don't think the coyote knew we were there until he got that close. And Kaladi had a hard time with his scent because of the wind. He may have been coming to her food dish, so we now keep that inside at night. 

Jason was sleeping and Barb was running an errand in town, so we were the only witnesses. That was event #1, certainly the most startling. Also on the porch during that couple of hours, we observed and talked about a dead dragonfly caught between two boards, and we watched a butterfly struggle in a spider's web, knowing the probable ending to that particular predicament.


When Jason woke up, we all took a road trip into the Turtle Mountains, up to Lake Metigoshe to see all the little lake cabins and dwellings. It was a busy weekend, so all the restaurants were full. We ordered food at a drive-in and sat by the lake to eat. Then it was back down to the plains, where we visited an old historic church, then the long drive home. 

on the shore of Lake Metigoshe - sand castle in the background created by Z and Papa

Zoralee asking, "Where is God?"

We spent quite awhile wandering around the graveyard, again talking with Zoralee about death, and about remembering the dead. Families were buried near each other, some members born a century or more apart, never to have met, some making it into old age and others living a single day. To walk so lightly on the grass above their graves, to read their names and try to fathom the same fate befalling us, even our precious tinies, is frankly too much to bear. My eye is on the Eternal, but dang, those old gravestones seem to hold hope down by the chest, hold her strong to the cold, wet mud.

Then we came home and made fire. Fire is good. Little fires don't suggest that you ignore the cold world all around, but they offer a space to get warm, quiet yourself and regroup.