National Public Rodeo Queen

I'm not really sure how it happened. It would be like if I had a child and she grew up idolizing Paris Hilton or dreaming of joining the Dallas Cowboy Chearleaders. How does one differ so much from those who nurtured and grew them from infancy?
I have just finished my cowgirl workout, which I partake in every six months or so, involving dirty boots, a stained ball cap, and anything from a pitchfork to a 4-wheeler. I came home for the weekend, because, well, I have it off and not much else going on and sometimes I enjoy playing farmgirl and hanging with the fam. It becomes evident, however, that "farmgirl" is not my destiny as I'm lecturing about socialism while pitching hay. It's no eqalitarian system round these parts, since the "dumb" steer in the hospital pen didn't need to get any more to eat, while the pretty new "weaners" were getting a smorgasbord.
There we were, my mother and I, out among the dust, rust, dogs, and cattle. She pointed out "that there brockel face," was a big ol' meany and would "ram jam" that poor sick calf. It's a whole other culture out here, complete with its own vocabulary.
In this post-chore, pizza, beer, football, and bullriding evening, I can't help but wonder...how did I go from Rodeo Queen and Teen Age Republican Camp to Punk Rock Shows and NPR?
This post changed directions...and now I'm distracted. So I'm just going to post it and be done. :)

Oceans

Now, landlocked, Oceans crashing on tv screens.
Soon, sea side, Oceans crashing before my eyes.
I'll run to it.
It will fall at my feet.
Heart at home.
Love reunited at last.

The Water Brought It

The water brought it
and set it at my feet and said
-drink of me, o you who are thirsty-
so, i cupped my hands and drank it
in furious gulps like the tide crashing down on the shore
its cold startled my throat
but i swallowed it all the same
never did the water tell me
-you don't deserve my gift-
it simply brought it
and set it at my feet
and with eager anticipation
invited me to drink

South Dakota Gives Way To Threadbare Sanity

Is it considered Indian Summer yet? Today...outstanding. Too nice not to sit outside and enjoy a cup of coffee in the warmth of the sun. The cold cold hell of South Dakota winter will be upon us soon enough, so I must soak it up while I can.  I despise how my favorite time of year, what with pumpkins and sweaters and oranges and browns, always has the dark shadow of the impending doom of winter cast over it, ever threatening to destroy this sacred time of year without a moment's notice. One can never trust the warmth in South Dakota, outside of July and August. One day you're basking outdoors with coffee and pen, and the next your calling a plummer because your pipes froze and now your basement is flooded and your sleeping in three layers of clothes and eight blankets. I cherish the warmth of the day while living in fear that tomorrow it may be ripped away from me in a blizzard that lasts six months. This volatile state plays mind games and wreaks havoc on my already threadbare sanity.

Got Jesus?

It was a smokey Tuesday at the Nickel Spot. Zach and I out to enjoy billards, Guiness, and really crappy music. Mostly, the term "buttrock" crossed my mind. I've noticed the last few times I've gone there that a group of deaf people have been haning out there. I don't mean to stare and be rude, but sign language fascinates me. Tonight, however, there was a different fellow there. By the way he was talking, I believe that he was deaf, but he was with a group of somewhat obnoxious girls who clearly had no hearing problems, though felt the need to scream what they were saying to one another in colorful language. He had dark hair and a patchy beard, and what struck me about him was his T-shirt. Black, in white letters, it asked "Got Jesus?" When I first noticed him, Hootie and the Blowfish was blaring out of the jukebox. I decided I wasn't even old enough to enter the bar the last time I heard that song. Once in a decade is enough, it seems. Anyway, he'd shoot pool, smoke his cigarettes, and talk loudly with the girls. All the time, though he may or may not have been aware of it, he was asking, "Got Jesus?" And...I don't know...it just struck me as funny. More of a shirt I would have seen at one of my many many Christian concerts and/or music festivals than in a dive bar. But there was something sort of endearing about it as well. Unless he was wearing it to be ironical, which is totally possible. Either way, between this interesting fellow, Hootie and the Blowfish, losing repeatedly at pool, and a pitcher of Guiness, it wasn't a bad evening.