I live with my parents...

Yes, I admit it. I live with my parents. Not in the same house, mind you, but close enough to see in their bedroom window. It hasn't always been this way. I made a valiant effort to find another place in the world that felt this right. A year in Texas, eight in South Dakota, ten in eastern Oregon. All were good in their own way. None was home. So now I'm back on the family ranch, with husband and son in tow. Our nearest neighbors are three miles to the west--a cousin and his wife. To the east the next house is ten miles, the officers' housing at the border crossing into Canada. That's also where we pick up our mail. Groceries are an hour's drive, the first twelve miles on gravel roads. The nearest mall is three hours, unless you cross into Alberta. Yep, folks, this is what they mean by living in the sticks. My son will be the fourth generation of my mother's family to live on this ranch. My great-grandparents homesteaded a mile north of here, on land now owned by my uncle. My great-grandfather on my dad's side was an itinerate cowboy in southwestern Montana. I attended my first rodeo when I was two weeks old, competed for the first time when I was eight. Rodeo is the addiction that has tainted every major decision in my life, from my career to my spouse, and kept me poor and humble more often than not. Luckily, my husband suffers from the same affliction, as well as most of my family. Ranching, horses and rodeo. It's what we do, what we've always done. It has been suggested that we just don't know any better. But to us, it is the norm. Much to our surprise, this world of ours seems to be a source of fascination to others. Movies, books and reality shows have all taken a shot at life on the range. And for the most part, they've missed. It's rarely as exciting or romantic as it seems on TV...but what is? So I thought I'd share a slice of our life now and then. The plain, unvarnished, day-to-day stuff. Montana, for real.