The Right--No, Left--No, Right Side of the Bed

Okay, show of hands. How many of you who sleep with another human being on a regular basis have a dedicated side of the bed? (No, the cats and/or dogs don't count because everybody knows the dogs always take the middle and the cats sleep on your head).

Before you get married, people tell you that you'll argue about money and who does the dishes and the laundry and the whole toilet seat up or down thing, but nobody warns you about the hand-to-hand combat over who gets which side of the bed. After twenty three years you'd think we'd have this settled, but we've always been a little slow.

To start with, neither of us really cared all that much. I ended up with the left side of the bed. Then, just when I got settled in, we switched bedrooms. (This was back in South Dakota when we actually had such a thing as a spare bedroom. My husband says the longer he's married to me, the smaller our houses get. I say we're trying to reduce our carbon footprint. He says...well, we won't get into that.)

Anyway, in the new bedroom the right side of the bed was closest to the door. As a new bride I came equipped with a red tick coonhound named Weezy who didn't believe in drinking water from a bowl. She'd get up in the middle of the night, wander into the bedroom and shove her nose in my face, her way of asking me to come turn the bathtub faucet on for her. The first night we slept in the new room she strolled in and slurped the ear of the person closest to the door. My husband was not amused. I was immediately relocated to the right side of the bed.

This lasted for a couple of years. Then one day I roped a calf in our practice arena and my breakaway hondo malfunctioned, and instead of the rope flinging harmlessly off to the side it zinged straight back and nailed my mare, Scotty, in the nose. She reared and fell over and I landed on my elbow, doing bad things to the bursa and tendons in my shoulder. Suddenly, laying on my right side was not an option and I am incapable of facing toward the middle of the bed while sleeping. Once again we swapped sides of the bed.

We stuck with this arrangement for about a dozen years, despite my campaign to swap sides after our son was born, my side being the one closest to his crib. Then we moved back to Montana, into my parents' bunkhouse, in which the bedroom was originally my grandfather's chicken coop. The roof slants down to the point where the north wall is only four feet tall. After driving his head into the ceiling several times in the middle of the night, Greg begged me to switch sides, which was fine by me because my side was by the door and our son was in his get up at 2 a.m. with leg cramps stage. Sorry, honey, you're closer.

Then Greg got his hip replaced and couldn't lay on his left side so we had to switch again. That lasted just over a year.

At the beginning of this past summer I had one of those female surgeries that plunge you into instant menopause, complete with hot flashes and night sweats. I happened to notice on chilly nights I slept better. And then I realized that, thanks to our crumbling foundation and prevalent north wind, the left side of the bed is always colder, so I made him trade me spots.

So here we are, back where we started. Who knows how long this will last. All I can say it, thank God we never had bunk beds.

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Now available for pre-order from Samhain Publishing!!

Christmas Tales

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I have managed to successfully create my first ever author newsletter, which those of you who've listened to me whine about my ongoing war with technology know is a major accomplishment. It includes one of the all time favorite posts from way back at the beginning of this blog, a Christmas story even, the one about the road trip with the dog and the baby and the tow truck and...well, you just have to read the whole thing.

If you want a few chuckles, take a minute to Subscribe and this and future editions will land directly in your inbox, along with the latest news about my novels. Each newsletter will feature a story, either something like you find here on my blog or, occasionally, a bonus short story that will only be available to newsletter subscribers.

Here's hoping the holidays find you well and happy, or at least well-stocked with booze and chocolate and those frosted sugar cookies that are almost the death of me every year.

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The Long Ride Home

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Those of you who've followed along on this blog for a while know I write books, and I've been trying to sell those books for...well, let's not go into details. Suffice to say, it's been a long ride, mostly uphill and against the wind. So it's fitting that the book I finally sold ended up with the title The Long Ride Home. And wouldn't you know, it's the first I've written that's set here on my home turf, the Blackfeet Reservation.

Ladies and Gentlemen....swooshes back the curtain...meet my debut novel!

The Long Ride Home

David Parsons is on the verge of making his pro rodeo dreams come true when his one-in-a-million rope horse, Muddy, goes missing. In the aftermath, David loses everything. His career, his fiancée´, his pride.

Four years later, David is clawing his way out of the ruins and back up the rankings when he gets the miracle he’s prayed for. Muddy has been found on Montana’s Blackfeet Indian Reservation.

But repossessing Muddy is unexpectedly complicated. Kylan, the teenager on Muddy’s back, has had a lifetime of hard knocks. His custodial aunt, Mary Steele, will fight like a mama bear to make sure losing this horse isn’t the blow that levels the boy. Even if it’s at David’s expense.

David is faced with a soul-wrenching dilemma. Taking back his own future could destroy Kylan’s. And ruin any chance he might have with the fierce, fascinating Mary.

It’s a long, hard ride to the top of the rodeo world. And for David, an even longer ride home. Unless he can find a trail that leads to both.

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The book will be available for pre-order on January 4th at all your usual e-book outlets and released for your reading pleasure on February 3rd. Between now and then I shall be pimping it regularly, which will include prizes and bonus stories and excerpts. If you're a fan of the photos on this blog, you'll definitely want to play along, as I'll be giving away some wall art versions of my favorites. All of that can land in your inbox if you sign up for my newsletter at Tales from the Frozen North. 

You can also follow along with what's new on my Facebook author page at Kari Lynn Dell. If you do pop by there, please take a second to click the Like button. The more people like me, the more likely Facebook will actually let my posts be seen, and the more likely I'll sell some copies of this book, which in turn makes it more likely they'll let me publish another one. 

Why yes, marketing IS every author's favorite part of the game. Could you tell by this face I'm making? But as long as I have to do it, you might as well benefit. Sign up, sign in, we'll see you down the road. 

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A Little Icing on Top

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We've had two days of miserable, foggy weather with a cold south wind. But this morning the sun came out and we got our reward. My trees are all decorated for the holidays, I can just kick back with a hot chocolate and enjoy the view. Until it warms up and the wind blows all that ice down like buckets of marbles on the metal roof of my bedroom, usually at around 3 a.m.

Snow Job

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It is one of those lovely little ironies of life that when it's too wet or too snowy to rope outdoors, we move inside. And then it's too dusty so we have to dump water on the arena we're using because it's raining or snowing outside. Nothing like dragging hoses through the mud to make you question your intelligence. Winter makes the process more complicated because hoses and water trucks freeze up and are generally a pain in the patoot.If only there were a way to open up the roof and let just enough moisture fall inside.

Occasionally Mother Nature cooperates and dumps a foot of fluffy snow at an opportune moment, which was this Saturday except for the part where we drove through drifts and a near white-out to go to a Christmas concert. But Sunday, with the help of a tractor with a loader, Greg hauled in enough of the white stuff to do the trick. After another good drag with the arena tractor, it'll be just right.

Ranch Math

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Story problem:

You have two pastures with good shelter and water that doesn't freeze in the winter.

You have six horses. Two mares--Myla, who is approximately a hundred in horse years but can still kick an upstart gelding away from the hay pile, and Target, the fat Paint pony, who gets along with everything. Four geldings: Hollywood, Nico and Bailey, all of whom think they're studs and should be top dog in the herd, and Vegas, who is a total weenie and gets pushed around by the fat Paint pony.

Hollywood can't be turned in with the mares or he goes completely brain dead.

Bailey and Hollywood can be together, but only as long as there are no other horses in the pasture.

If Nico and Vegas are in the same pasture, Nico will run Vegas through the fence just for the fun of it.

Nico and Hollywood are sworn enemies.

Bailey, Vegas or Nico can be turned in with the mares, but no two at the same time.

Hollywood has to be in the pasture attached to the barn because you can't get a halter on him unless you lure him into a stall with a bucket of grain.

Divide the above horses into the two pastures. Please show your work.

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WARNING: Any person who suggests the mares are the problem gets a two week time-out to consider the error of their ways. My mares don't take no crap,


UPDATE: So I did the horse shuffle, splitting up Hollywood and Bailey so they didn't gang up on anyone. Nico, Hollywood and Vegas went in one pasture, figuring there was enough space that Hollywood and Nico won't kill each other and they'll be too busy fighting to pick on Vegas. Bailey was more than happy to go out with the mares. Everybody appeared to be safe, if not thrilled with the new arrangement. Until this morning, when we were doing chores and Bailey tried to come in the barn while we were bagging calf feed, and Max the Cowdog bit him on the nose and drew blood. 

*sigh* Horses and dogs. It's always something.  

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Scary Good Fun

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Today I saw something on Facebook that could possibly give me nightmares. No, not the abused puppy pictures. (Damn, why do people post those things without warning?) Anyway, what I saw was this (sorry, it wouldn't embed,you'll have to pop over to their page to watch it): 

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10152194433561433&pnref=story

I have no idea what this event is even called, other than insane. In other words, it looks like a total blast, but only if they'd let me ride a real saddle. The scary part is while I watched this, I tried to picture myself doing it on the only trained jumping horse we've ever owned. And that, folks, was terrifying.

Her name was Betsy. She was a Roan Hancock mare, only fourteen hands tall (that's small, for you non-horse people) and had an attitude the size of King Kong. Some people we knew in southern Alberta had bought and trained her as a jumping horse for a junior competitor. She could clear five feet, but was too much for a kid to handle.

The one thing you could say about Betsy...she never bucked. She didn't need to. She could inflict all the damage she wanted before you ever got off the ground. You couldn't catch her, and if you tried to corner her she'd run you down. Once you did get a halter on her, she'd either drag you, step on you, or knock you cross-eyed with the side of her head. And to top it all off, she had a mouth like a rock, and wasn't above grabbing the bit between her teeth and taking off with or without you.

She was also, pound for pound, the best rope horse we've ever owned. She could fly and she had a killer stop. All you had to do was nod your head and rope. Betsy took care of the rest.

And because she was so athletic, we couldn't resist training her to run barrels.

May I say, I've done things that were more frightening than the time I ran Betsy in the big Choteau arena, but I'll have to think for a bit to remember any of them. Her finest moment, though, happened at a jackpot up in Alberta, with my sister Lola aboard.

The fence around the arena was woven wire topped by a wooden rail. I have no recollection what kind of run they made. They flew home from the third barrel and Lola pulled up at the scoreline. Instead of slowing and circling, Betsy ran straight up to the fence, planted and launched.

She would've cleared it, too, if she hadn't clipped that one hind leg on the top pole.

I can totally see Betsy in the competition in the video I posted. She would have either blown all their doors off, or it would have been a complete runaway with four or five laps at full speed around the arena and then she would've lawn-darted me into the water hazard. Either way, those people in the crowd would have remembered her.

I guarantee, none of the people who knew her will ever forget.

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Enjoy this story? Want more? Sign up for my newsletter and get a story in your inbox a couple times a month. Plus prizes and stuff if show even a vague interest in my upcoming book, The Long Ride Home, due out from Samhain Publishing on Feb 3, 2015. http://montanaforreal.blogspot.com/p/sign-up-for-tales-from-frozen-north.html

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