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Wednesday, February 22, 2017

The Big Move



  Today's world is small. Unless you live in North Korea (and even there if you know where to look), we all seem to have access to the latest thing thanks to the Internet, the 24-hour news cycle and the availability of world travel. But 45 years ago, California felt about as far from North Dakota as you could get. I moved from the West Coast to Bismarck in 1971, and it was a year of firsts for me.
   My father sold Olympia beer, and I still remember the day he came home and told my mother he had been transferred. He may as well have said we're moving to Timbuktu. We had to pull out a map. The one thing we keyed in on was the "north." We knew that it was a place both cold and remote. When we told friends where we were going, inevitably, they said, "Where's that?" followed by "Why on earth?" Still, it wasn't our first move, so onward and northward we went.
   We packed our lives into Bekins boxes and drove to the airport. I'd never been on a plane before, and we flew first class. There was nothing cardboard about it. Dinner was served on china dishes with real silverware and linen napkins. My brother and I were served Coca Cola, a rare treat for us back then, and my parents drank champagne from glass flutes. That was back in the days before there were doors on the cockpits, and I remember the captain calling my brother and me up to look at the controls before he pinned wings on us and made us honorary pilots.
 
A TOWN WITH ONE TAXI
 

   When we landed, we were driven in a cab to the motel that would be our home for weeks while my parents waited for our new house to be ready. A cab ride might not seem remarkable, but this one certainly was. It had jump seats; a lot of fun for kids. The motel we stayed in had a pool, also a huge deal. Those experiences eased the transition for me. That fall I started sixth grade in a public school, after my years in Catholic elementary. I traded in the school uniforms that had always made getting dressed in the morning easy and painless, for jumpers that made me stand out in a way I didn't appreciate. Most of the rest of the kids wore jeans, something that hadn't been allowed in my schools. I had experienced snow before, thanks to a couple of years spent in Spokane, but never the kind of snow and cold that North Dakota gets.
     I remember that first Christmas begging for ice skates, but then being unable to use them because I couldn't stand the cold that the other kids seemed to take in stride. Bismarck had its own culture, very different from the one I'd been surrounded by in California, with our big, noisy extended family. But culture, like the cold, is something kids adapt to.
     These days I'm right at home in the very middle of North America, and I wouldn't want to leave it behind for anyplace else. But there are those February days, like today, where I do a little California Dreamin'.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Hot Dog Day


I was cleaning out an old trunk the other day and ran across the hat I wore to Mass in 3rd Grade, at St. Rose Catholic School in Santa Rosa, California. It was blue plaid wool, not a hat, really, as I think about it, but rather, a triangle of fabric with plastic bands sewn onto the edges that held it to my head like a vice. We didn't need it for warmth. It was part of our uniform at a time when girls had to cover their heads in church. (This picture is not of me, but put brown hair in place of the blond and I'd say it's a pretty good likeness...and THAT'S the hat). I looked at the hat, smiled, and then tossed it out. I kind of regret that now, because seeing it brought me right back to my first day at that new school. I was a student there for less than a year. Yet it left a lasting impression.

The school year had already started when I was enrolled. It was my first experience with Catholic school rather than public. The jumper I wore was scratchy, my saddle shoes were stiff, and I was scared to death. I didn't talk to anybody. After lunch, bladder bursting and standing in a hall that was rapidly emptying as children found their classrooms, I finally discovered a heavy oak door marked "girls." Getting in was easy. Getting out was not. No matter how hard I tried I couldn't get that door to open again, not in or out. After 15 minutes of trying I sat down under the sinks, tucked my knees up under my chin and started to cry. A short time later the door swung open and one of the nuns in a long black habit, with rattling Rosary beads and a wimple around her shiny red face sailed in. I knew I was not where I was supposed to be and I feared the worst. She bent down, saw my face, and smiled.

"I don't believe I've seen you here before," she said, and held out her hand, which I grasped like a lifeline. She hauled me to my feet. "What's the trouble?" I explained that I couldn't get the door open and she put her hand over her mouth to hide a grin, then said, "Ah, now that is confusing." She led me around the stalls to a door on the other side of the long room, one I hadn't seen until then. Of course, the "Out" door. "One swings in, the other out, you see?" she said, then led me back to my classroom. (Okay, that's Ingrid Bergman, but the habit looks right).

The nuns at that school were kind, and because they were, I grew to love my time there. I learned to stand when I was called on in class, or when the priest came into the room. I learned to make the Sign of the Cross whenever the bell rang, a habit I had a devil of a time breaking when I went back to public school. By far the best days, though, were Hot Dog Days. There was no hot lunch at St. Rose. We brought our lunches in brown paper sacks, or in lunchboxes shaped like school buses with the thermos hooked in the flip-open lids. We ate on the playground that was really an asphalt parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence. We sat on the cement sidewalks with our backs up against the brick building. Most days it was bologna sandwiches or peanut butter and jelly on white bread. But once a month we each brought a quarter from home and lined up for Hot Dog Day. If I close my eyes I can still smell it. The hot dogs came wrapped in white paper with a packet of mustard tucked in beside the bun. If you got there early and got a good place in line they were still steaming. They were accompanied by a carton of Foremost milk, tall and skinny with a cap on the top that flipped open. Dessert was a tiny cardboard cup of orange sherbet with a flat wooden dipping spoon under the lid. It was heaven. There was excitement in the air, for no other reason than that it was Hot Dog Day.

I looked the school up on the Internet to see if it would spark any memories, and the old building doesn't appear to be there anymore. There's a modern school now, probably one with hot lunch and a real playground with swings and slides. The little girls no longer have to wear those vice-grip hats. Dockers and polo shirts have likely replaced the scratchy wool uniforms. But we had something they don't have, unless of course, they still have Hot Dog Day.

Monday, February 6, 2017

Life in the Fast Lane



North Dakota is known for two things, mainly. Well, oil, but that's a more recent development. The people here are the salt of the earth too, but outside of the state what we've always been known for is cold weather and vast distances between settlements. The Native Americans knew this, the early immigrant settlers certainly knew it, and anybody who has to drive from any one of our cities to any other knows it.


The temptation, therefore, is to put the pedal to the metal. In fact, the North Dakota Legislature is  considering legislation right now that would bring our speed limit from 75 up to 80 for that very reason. There's an argument that says it's actually more dangerous to have a slower limit because people get so bored while tooling down the Interstate that they stop paying attention. This time of year, all you can really see is a vast whiteness, with the sky blending into the fields on the far horizon.


This weekend, my partner Renita and I were driving to a book signing in Fargo, and we were stopped for speeding. Renita got distracted for just a moment and got a little heavy on the foot pedal, and that's when we passed the highway patrolman. I regret the ticket, but I do feel good about a couple of things:


1. Renita shows great grace under pressure. She didn't get angry, she didn't really even get upset and she didn't pretend she wasn't in the wrong. That was refreshing. Most people just get mad at the cop who's just doing his job.


2. The officer was uber serious when he approached the car, as I'm sure they never know what they're dealing with. But by the time he handed us the ticket we had him laughing. Why foster bad feelings, right?


And 3. We had a great book-signing in Fargo, had a chance to get our message out and I think made a real difference for those who took the time to stop and hear our pitch. There was the woman who put the paleo diet book back because she thought PFC Every 3 was a better idea. (If you don't know what that is, read the book:

Nice and F.A.T. by Renita Brannan and Monica Hannan





There were the two women studying to be lawyers who wanted to help their soon-to-be husbands get healthy. And there was this guy who bought the book for his wife and so he could tell us about his son. He ended up being a new friend.




And finally, for your entertainment, here's a video of our encounter with the highway patrol officer: