FARGO-MOORHEAD CONVENTION AND VISITORS BUREAU Fargo-Moorhead's Celebration of Women & Their Music
This coming Saturday (February 18th) is the Fifteenth Annual Celebration of Women and Their Music. Im not sure how I was unaware of this event until just this week since Deb Jenkins founded it in 19... Posted on 2/16/12 at 5:04 PM
I stood at the top of the Badlands, the morning sun bright and warm on my skin, the breeze keeping the sweat from my face and the face of the students sitting at picnic tables, munching on Marcia’s homemade scotcharoos.
I’m accident-prone. Klutzy. Awkward. Graceless.
It’s no secret. If you know me, you’ve witnessed it. It’s a quality I’ve possessed since my first trip to the emergency room at 10 years old after my entry in the local youth rodeo went wrong.
My dad turned 50-somethingorother last week.
On May 31st. It’s the perfect day for a man like this to be born, his arrival into the world coinciding with the arrival of the most beautiful things on the ranch: green grass and blue sky. Maybe that’s why he’s been in love with this rugged and sometimes unforgiving landscape all of his life, because he was born with the scent of chokecherry blossoms under his skin and that gets him through the winters and droughts and keeps him believing in the promise that things will always get better. Spring will always come.
Progress. Lately, this word comes to my lips countless times a day. I suppose it’s not surprising considering I live on an almost 100-year-old ranch in an almost-finished house in the middle of one of the most booming economies in the country.
I like to imagine my mother before I knew her, before she became a mom to my big sister and wife to my father.
I like to imagine her with long, straight hair, jeans hugging her ballerina legs, high heels clicking along the pavement and her tan, elegant arms that opened out wide to the world.
I sat in the passenger’s seat of his Ford and leaned my head up against the window, watching the bare trees wave in the wind as we sloshed through the mud on the red road that stretches, bends and leads us home.
I was 9 years old, and the mid-morning sun was beating down on the scoria road, turning the pink rocks to dust as my legs sent my bicycle tires spinning up the steep hill toward the mile of dirt, pavement and cow plops that separated me from my best friend.
If you were to catch a long-time resident of Boomtown standing in line at the grocery store paying for lunch on the run, fueling up a pickup, or guiding a group of students across a busy Main Street, you might ask what has changed the most about their hometown over the last five years of progress.
I sat in the passenger seat of my friend’s big Ford pickup as she pulled up outside the front door of the local pizza place. We were stopping to grab dinner on our way home from a photo shoot, a job we took as part of a business venture we started together to foster our love of photography and to fill a need in our community.
I spent a few days last week transported to a different world, one where I was surrounded by princesses and bedazzled clothing, bright pink fingernails, fruit snacks, make-believe flying horses, dolphins that can talk and a million questions that needed to be answered.
I grew in a house in a clearing surrounded by oak trees on all sides. Outside my window and behind a restrung barbed wire fence was a homestead that had been abandoned years before my existence, leaving behind lilac bushes, rhubarb plants and a couple apple trees for my little sister and me to climb.
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