THE LOST ITALIAN Staking our claim as North Dakotans
Last week Tony and I had the opportunity to give a presentation at the North Dakota Bloggers and Writers Workshop, an annual event sponsored by the North Dakota Departments of Tourism and Commerce. ... Posted on 4/22/14 at 7:02 PM
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’m 6 years old, and the wind is blowing a chill across my face, making my eyes water and the fuzz that escaped my stocking cap flip in an attempt to fly away. My mom zipped my coat up to my chin, hiding the top of my Easter dress and leaving the frills to float above my snow boots, creating a perfect uniform for a task that required agility and patience, athleticism and all of Spider-man’s senses.
When I grow up, I want to be the kind of woman who lets her hair grow long, wild and silver. I hope I remember to keep my flannel shirts draped over chairs, hanging in the entryway and sitting on the seat of the pickup where they are ready and waiting for me to pull them on and take off somewhere, the scent of horsehair on the well-worn sleeve.
Over the hill in the barnyard and behind the old garage, covered by a tarp and a fresh dusting of spring snow, sits a little yellow boat on a little trailer.
I want to talk about this boat because it’s April now, and it’s time to start making plans to cast a catfish line, pull on some cutoffs and grill something, already.
I was standing at the kitchen counter cutting chicken for dinner, watching and laughing as his little legs took him flying. Around the coffee table, past the couch, down the hall and back again, stopping short every few steps to scrunch up his eyebrows, he held up his arms and made a noise that indicated he was stopping something evil.
The snow has thawed, slowly revealing a brown, muddy world, one littered with things forgotten under the five-month blanket. A pile of wood, a stack of leftover pallets, shingles from an unfinished garage roof sit just where we left them.
I was taking a drive with dad the other day – heading back to the ranch from town after dropping my car off at the shop and in between an exchange about this endless winter – when dad told me George died.
So I took a Zumba class the other day.
I know, I know. I’m way behind on this fitness phenomenon that gets us all together in a big room to cha-cha, salsa, and drop it like it’s hot in the name of Latin music and exercise.
Last week I stood in line at a convenience store in Boomtown, behind a man in Carhartts and steel-toe boots, in front of a woman running in for a snack and a potty break with her toddler, and surrounded by dozens of characters shuffling around the man mopping the melted snow off the floor in search of coffee, cigarettes, a slice of pizza – something to help them through the rest of a working day.
It’s coming on Valentine’s Day, and because these sub-zero temperatures are really starting to wear on my good cheer, I’ve decided to it’s time to talk about love and other mushy stuff if only to thaw out our hearts this frozen mid-February.
I want to tell you about the day my dad lived.
My dad, with his beautifully raspy voice and strong, callused hands. My dad who loves unconditionally and laughs with a promise that things will be OK.
Our dad who knows things. Takes care of things.
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