The window is open in this house tonight, letting the summer out and the cool autumn air in. It's dark before 10 now and the crickets in the grass are louder than the frogs in the creek.
If you see my almost 3-year-old daughter bouncing around, following behind me at the grocery store or at an event, playing at the park or with toys in Gramma's store in town, she will likely ask you for your name.
"How old is that shirt you think?" I asked my husband as he came downstairs and scooped up both our babies to sit with him on his easy chair.
Tired from a full day of work, annoyed at fellow drivers and maybe running a worst-case scenario or two through his head, he glanced in his rearview mirror to find a white pickup bearing down on him, looking like it was going to run him clean over.
I love standing on the top of the hills around our house and scanning the horizon and the ribbon of road below me to see who might be coming or going — the sun, a neighbor, an oil field worker on his way home.
I never knew the Chad that existed before my husband's big yellow dog. They called him Rebel, except the only rebellious thing about him was that he'd take a cracked door as an invitation to go wandering.
It was 175 degrees and 200 percent humidity, so I did what any good and reasonably sane mother would do: I loaded up the kids and went to the county fair in town.
There are things I used to be. I used to be more careless. I used to be flexible. I used to be able to say "yes" loud and clear without worrying what "yes" would cost me.
No matter where you eat it, food connects us, it reminds us and it's part of our story. But when was the last time you've thought about the story of your food?
Western North Dakota has become many different things to so many different people over the last 10 years of an all out and unprecedented economic boom — a refuge. A last resort. A stop along the way. An experiment. An adventure. And for many, a new home. Last week, it became a place where a family lost their baby to the sky.