The weekend the time changed

365 days ago, we spent a whirlwind weekend househunting in the Bismarck area. It was the weekend that the time changed, and our experiences of that weekend certainly changed many things about the way we spend ours.

We approached the task with the enthusiasm of people moving into a lower-priced housing market than the one they were leaving behind. With two key criteria in mind (a solidly built house with waterfront access) we quickly found our way to our little house on the prairie.

What we never could have anticipated was the dumb luck that accompanied our choice. The kind of luck that spares your waterfront home during a 500 year flood, while other houses that were in the running suffered heartbreaking damage.

The kind of luck that brings the sort of neighbors that help you figure things out with kindness and without condescension, and with whom your only real differences of opinion are about the characteristics of a quaffable beer. Where the morning after Halloween your jack o'lanterns disappear from your yard not to be smashed to smithereens in the middle of the street but because some thoughtful neighbor tucked them into his truck alongside his own on the way to the community compost.

The kind of luck where your 5 am alarm rings and you're less than ten minutes from a swimming facility that rivals the best in America. And your friends are there waiting for you.

The kind of luck that locates you within a few short miles of an animal shelter where you discover the two little friends who help make your new house a home.

We could not have anticipated the good fortune, accidental or otherwise, that came with the choice of our home. A year later our novelty is wearing off, as is the novelty of discovering a new town. "Getting acquainted" conversations are evolving into friendships. Last week, I handed my Washington driver's license across the counter at the DOT, trading it in for a shiny new one with North Dakota creds.

We've been on double dates and hosted a houseful of cheery neighbors. We've watched the river ebb and flow and taken that deep, cleansing breath of survival. We were helped by many and in a small way did our best to give back.

Mike is learning to fly airplanes, and I am learning to make popovers. Which is proving somehow to be equally challenging.

Now, once again, it's the weekend that the time changed. We woke up to a wind advisory and snow in the forecast. Resident meteorogist Sundance is catapulting off the furniture and meowing up a bigger storm than usual. The shiny new snowblower is in the garage, fueled up and ready.

Winter is coming, and we know it will be long. And little by little, we are starting to feel like we could belong here, too.

Having a Good Hair Day

As the Missouri River reached flood stage on Memorial Day weekend, Mike decided to stop shaving. Or, as he puts it, after each day of all-day sandbagging, he was too tired to lift a razor to his face. By the time we had built what we needed, he was going to shave, but he had a good start on the first goatee of his young life, so I convinced him to let it grow — like a playoff good luck charm — until the waters returned to normal. Complementing our many other precautions, it was fun to believe that as long as the beard graced his face, we’d be safe.

Sometime in mid June, the waters crested over 19 feet. Today’s high water mark is 18.3. It has been fun to kiss a guy with a fuzzy face for awhile, but we have started to dare think the time has come to break out a new razor and put it to the task. Mike agreed to sport the beard until the river dips below the flood level of 16 feet, but even with the reduced flows from the Garrison Dam, the river’s height is dropping very gradually. Authorities contend that the worst is behind us. At this rate, by the time the river reaches 16 feet, there could be a lot more gray in the good-luck goatee.

The moustache magic is clearly working. To our surprise, we have managed to put together a fairly normal summer despite our circumstances.

On a recent sparkling Saturday, I became the third fastest female triathlete in North Dakota. 24 hours later, I was the lanterne rouge in my first ever cycling road race, before I abandoned. I am officially sticking with swimming. And have been swimming well, sometimes pell-melling down the lawn, over the levee and straight into the river on the heels of a ride or run in the wicked humidity.

We have learned what “triple digit heat index” means, and have come to appreciate air conditioning, that nemesis of sinus cavities and contact lenses but blessed purveyor of a decent night’s sleep.

We have moved our dining room and most of our living room back into the house, and we enjoyed every moment of the Tour de France on TV, perched on the couch instead of a patio chair. We are racking up the cycling miles ourselves (ill-fated road race notwithstanding), discovering picturesque outposts of Americana a few short pedal strokes from home. Nice men on Harley Davidsons pull up next us at intersections to ask if we are carrying enough water on our bikes during the hottest days.

New running routes are being discovered; many of the best trails are underwater. I was nearly home from a long run the other day when I encountered a police checkpoint guarding the dike I’d need to cross to get there. Fines for trespassing on the levees are steep —$1000 per violation — it is unsafe to walk on them and their integrity is critical to the protection of the homes along the river. The cute cop said I had to turn around, which meant backtracking much further than seemed physically possible in the heat. I asked him to turn around himself, so he would not see me vault a nearby chainlink fence, avoiding the levee by running down the expressway toward home. Thank heaven Bismarck traffic is light and the men in blue have a sense of humor. He waved.

Thousands of sandbags bake in the sun every day – not just those surrounding our houses, but the pallets and piles that lie dormant in the sandbag lots. They are a testament to many busy hands and stalwart souls that believed our efforts could make a difference. For such a mellow and pragmatic crowd, North Dakotans are over-achievers.

I remember a conversation with Garret who shoveled sandbags for us for hours one Sunday morning. He said, “Can you imagine how we will all feel a few weeks or months from now when we know that we have saved the town? When everyone, from the little kids who tied sandbags to the teenagers driving Bobcats to the moms and dads and brothers and sisters who shoveled and hauled and built….can look back at this and realize that it was their efforts that made all of the difference?”

I can imagine it now.

Our neighborhood has become a messy jumble of levees, their tarps tattered by the wind and blowing into the gardens. Pontoon boats cruise our bay on lazy afternoons. Conversations turn to cleaning up, replacing carpet, moving back in….and at our house….shaving.

Waiting Game

Every day, we get a little more hopeful. Perhaps in the end, we'll come out of this with just a ruined backyard and a few unanticipated bills to pay. That, and a host of new friends, and that wherewithal inherent to anyone who has endured life's most galvanizing moments.

We have lost weight, but gained heart.

[The other day Mike took his jeans off without unbuttoning them. I laughed what is left of my a** off.]

The dam continues to spew ever-increasing flows in our general directon. I believe the output today is around 135,000 cfs. We remain tucked safely behind the clay barrier that is plugging our bay, and a dike that hems our neighborhood in against the river. The de-watering pumps that were pushing water out of our part of the river into the main channel at a rate of 8,000 gallons per minute earlier this week have been quiet for several days.

The water level has receded from our backyard, and we've heard nary a burp from our sump pump lately.

I understand that just under 800 households have been evacuated, and certainly there's evidence of the river's wrath around virtually every corner. Two streets away from us, a family simply bulldozed their damaged home over. The Jetty Beach neighborhood, which we can see from our house, has been completely deserted.

The good news is that even in the main channel, the water is not rising at the forecast rate, giving hope to some who had, days earlier, given their homes up for lost.

So we wait and see. We try to do "normal" things. Get a haircut. Go for a bike ride. Plant some flowers. Sign up for a triathlon. Work an 8 hour day and try not to feel guilty that your sandbag blisters are starting to heal.

The community leaders, National Guard, Corps of Engineers, construction companies and engineering firms have done what they can to protect the town. Neighbors have moved each other out of their homes, and built walls, and prayed for eachother.

It seems to be working.

The Ripple Effect

A few days ago, our community learned that the plan to build a system of dikes to protect our neighborhoods had been scrapped. Government officials and the Corps of Engineers said it just wouldn't keep the water out.

So a handful of very motivated neighbors called in a private engineering firm to discuss a new plan. This plan entailed a several mile long dike to hold back the flow, clay "plugs" that would seal off the bays we live on from the main channel of the Missouri, and a "de-watering" system that would help reduce the impact of groundwater. The strategy would also protect the waste water treatment plant that serves our area. The project would take between 750,000 and 1 million sandbags to complete.

With the help of city officials, the National Guard, Corps of Engineers, construction companies from throughout the state and thousands of volunteers, the implementation of this plan has been underway for about 24 hours. The first of the bay "plugs" is being constructed, and there's cautious optimism about its success. The community and National Guard cranked out over 250,000 sandbags on Memorial Day. That could be enough to seal off the waste water plant, which is a top priority.

The hope is for the dike surrounding the area to be complete by Saturday.

We continue to persevere on the home front while spending as much time at "Sandbag Site #3" to contribute to the community good. Each household's part of the venture is 3000 sandbags. Mike and I can fill about 80 per hour.

We have moved everything out of our basement and virtually everything out of the main floor. Mike, Laif, Jim, Jeff and Josh came by yesterday to help us move the last of the big furniture into our trailer, and also pull up the carpet out of the basement. Things that were too heavy to move were put up on cinder blocks.

We plan to live on our third floor until we are told to evacuate, which we still believe is a strong possiblilty, despite the protective measures underway. There is no way of knowing how much water will be released from the dam in the end. It is raining cats and dogs in Montana, and the snowmelt really has only started.

Today we put a deposit on a rental house, so we will have a place to go when the time comes. We are incredibly lucky to have found it. And we can bring Daffodil and Sundance! That is a huge relief as their antics have helped us keep our chins up in the darkest moments. I can't imagine parting with them.

The water is rising (we are starting to see the impact of yesterday's increased flow). It is windy and dark outside, which makes everything seem so much worse.

Yesterday I signed us up for the Reverse 911 service so we'll get any emergency updates on our cell phones. A week ago, I did not even know such a thing existed.

Heartfelt thanks to all of you who have offered your support to us over the last few days. We have been truly touched by your concern and offers of help. Take care out there.

Bad news and good friends

Yesterday we learned that more water is coming. The earlier "longshot" forecast of 120,000 cfs flowing out of the Garrison dam became a reality -- the dam will open to this level on June 2. In addition, we can anticipate 150,000 cfs at some yet to be determined future date.

This news -- and its surrounding flock of rumors -- meant moments of dumbfounded panic which quickly turned into action. And, powered by the heartfelt concern, determination, and pure muscle of our friends, we have moved most of the furniture out of the first and second stories of our house, have a place to store it, and have a strong line on a temporary home.

The neighborhood is filled deep into the night with the sound of heavy equipment, the ever-widening puddles of water flowing out of sump pumps, and frightened faces everywhere.

Yesterday was filled with moments of truth:

I visited three separate sand bagging locations searching for a bale of loose bags (our neighbors shared a pile of sand that they'd had delivered with us). For several hours, the community was nearly "out." About 3 million bags have been filled, and this morning I heard the mayor say on the radio that another 3 are on their way.

I nearly lost my mind when I climbed the stepladder into the attic with my wedding dress over my arm and tucked it away.

A woman called into the radio station looking for help from someone who lives near the humane society on the north side of Mandan because they had been unable to cross town to feed the pets in the shelter.

Mike, Laif, Jeff, Barbara, Rick, Al, Diane and others shared their time, resources and connections to help us find solutions and get the work done. We can not say enough to thank you. The written word rarely fails me, but here I am.

I have added more photos here.

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.229507787062822.76105.100000108077904#!/media/set/?set=a.229507787062822.76105.100000108077904

Hoping and Coping

It wasn't long ago that we thought the protective mama goose nesting on our dock was the only thing standing between us and a good time on the Missouri River this summer.

That changed in a flash with announcements early last week that the Corps of Engineers planned to increase the flow from the upstream Garrison dam by over 50,000 cubic feet per second into the river, our town, and our backyard. Heavy snow pack, rain -- and perhaps a lack of perspicacity on the part of the Corps of Engineers -- backed the water up behind the dam with no where to go but here.

In the days that followed, the news worsened. The release will rise to 85,000 cubic feet per second on Monday, to 90,000 cfs on June 4, to 95,000 on June 6 and 100,000 on June 7. It could reportedly elevate to 120,000 cfs in time. The highest flow ever recorded in the past was 64,000 cfs.

Flood stage on the Missouri is 16 feet; at 100,000 cfs the river will rise over 18. Yesterday, the river level stood at 15.8 feet.

It has been inspiring to be part of a community that has united to plan, build, and tackle the incredibly hard physical labor together. Most people have been going to their jobs for a few hours each morning then joining crews to shore up the property of friends, relatives, and strangers. I am overwhelmed with gratitude to the team of Mike's colleagues who worked tirelessly with us on Thursday to help protect our home.

About a half dozen sandbag stations have been created by the National Guard where folks are shoveling scoop after scoop of sand into bags, hefting them onto trucks, driving them home and building walls.

Information flow is improving, though government officials are facing credibility issues because the news they share often changes, leading to scary rumors and false hopes. This is a "historic event" (floods are extremely rare here, and one of this magnitude has never been experienced) so we're all in uncharted territory, community leaders included.

We learned last night that a dike that had been planned to protect our neighborhood from the worst of the flow will not be built after all. This changes our mindset from "hey we could be OK" to "let's move everything our of the basement, come up with an evacuation plan, and try to figure out where we are going to live for the months it could take to recover from this if we have to leave it behind."

I have found that I cope best in this emergency when my hands are moving. Lifting a shovel, carrying a sandbag, pushing a wheelbarrow. It is difficult to concentrate on much else. Mike has been helping friends and colleagues every day, while also gearing us up with sump pumps, a generator, and doing the literal heavy lifting at our place.

Our neighborhood has come together in a collaborative and supportive spirit, and we have been heartened by everyone's generosity and guidance. Sherri, our friend who cares for our kittens when we travel and lives in a safe part of town, came by just to let us know that if we are forced to go, she will take our dear little Sundance and Daffodil into her home. This quiet comfort means the world.

Shelley from across the street made me laugh last night for the first time in days.

This post is getting long and it is starting to rain. I have added photos to my facebook page here: http://www.facebook.com/krnmaria3#!/media/set/?set=a.229507787062822.76105.100000108077904 if you'd like to have a look. I will try to keep updating both here and there.

Meanwhile, I understand open water swim season starts this weekend in Seattle. Don't get me started.

Pedal Power with a Purpose

Yesterday, I learned that while it may be small, when it puts its mind to it, my new hometown can be mighty. Around 9:30 a.m., I entered the Century High School gymnasium with the intent of riding a spin bike as far as I could for 20 minutes. I was one of 1300 people participating in the Great American Bike Race, an annual effort to raise money to support local people affected by cerebral palsy and related disabilities. By my calculation, over 2% of the town's population passed through the gym doors that day, while the scope of supporters was, of course, much larger. I heard we raised around a quarter of a million dollars. I had lucked into a coveted spot when my swimming friend Mike was unable to participate and gave me the chance to step in. I rode on a 12-person squad from Hub Insurance, captained by Laif (see photo below -- he won a coffee cup for posting the best ride in his heat) who did everything in his power to help me figure stuff out and have a good ride. Oh, and feel at home. A Hub Insurance colleague, Louie, had a son who lost his life to cerebral palsy several years ago; it meant a lot to meet her and her daughter, and be part of the group. In case you are wondering, riding a spin bike as fast as you can for 20 minutes no picnic. All the tension is pulled out of the bike, so the whole idea is to simply make your legs fly with the speediest cadence you can muster. I'm more of a Jan Ullrich than a Lance Armstrong style rider, so I was a little lost without the feeling of big gears. I think I hung around 21 miles per hour. And it was hard.

We rode in the recreational division (our team was made up of swimmers, runners, guys who play basketball and golf, and two very nice high school hockey stars, among others who I didn't have the chance to meet...I'm not sure there was a serious cyclist among our ranks). I'm not certain how we finished up, though midway through the event we were hanging in second place and averaging over 7 miles per person.

Our bright yellow steed was parked next to the "celebrity" bike; I watched the chief of police, the tax commissioner, and even the mayor of Bismarck, John Warford (he's the rider in purple below) put their muscle behind the cause.

There were also teams of grandmas and grandpas who rocked in rocking chairs for 20 minutes instead of riding spin bikes.

My swim coach friend Loic, who participated on a team with his wife, described the Great American Bike Race as "overwhelming." Not in the physical sense, but in the spiritual one that's about community and caring.

It was a powerful thing to be part of. Thank you, everyone, who supported me with your messages and your pledges.

Weather or Not

OK. So I am a little chagrined about the remarks I made on facebook yesterday about the weather. I was kidding around that I hoped the promised blizzard would be one of the Dairy Queen ilk, and grousing that no one in town would bring us a pizza (while we watched the Huskies play their first game of the Pac 10 championship, recorded because it aired after bedtime CST the previous night -- Go Dawgs!).

Turns out, while I watched the "wintry mix" of rain and snow blowing sideways from the cozy comfort of my home office all day, over 800 motorists were stranded on the highways across North Dakota.

From the Bismarck Tribune: "Interstate 94 was still closed from Dickinson to Fargo as of 11:30 a.m. Saturday, as was U.S. Highway 83 from Bismarck to Minot and highways west of Garrison. No travel advisories remained in effect for areas from south and west of Hazen east to state Highway 3 and in the Jamestown and Valley City areas. Interstate 29 was reopened from Fargo to the South Dakota border but remained closed from Watertown to Sisseton. I-29 also was closed from the Canadian border to Grand Forks and state Highway 1806 was closed between Highway 8 and Highway 200."

Wow. After the main arteries of the state were closed because they were impossible to traverse on Friday, many drivers abandoned their vehicles, rescued by state department of transportation workers. Some were even discovered by helicopters this morning.

I should have known not to make light of it. As I was driving home from swim practice early Friday the local announcer on Prairie Public radio warned of a no-travel advisory across the state, and recommended that if you had to go out, you should "be sure your winter emergency kit is well supplied. And if you are stranded, please stay with your car." If I've learned anything about my new demographic, North Dakotans are a hearty, determined bunch. It takes some pretty serious weather to keep them from going about their business. I should have known.

Life goes on, and there's no drama.

Reflective perhaps of the unsinkable spirit of this place, today dawned sunny and beautiful. Our driveway had been naturally "shoveled" by the wind; the large blizzardy snowfall had drifted gently but firmly into our neighbor's yard.

Primetime Big 10 basketball coverage notwithstanding, I think I am going to like it here. But I'd be lying if I didn't own up to the tug on my heart as I spoke with my sister by phone today, and she said that daffodils are blooming in Oregon.

867-5309

So, when was the last time you opened the phone book to look up a number? Around the same time that Tommy Tutone crooned about finding Jenny's on the wall? Or perhaps when, by definition, phone numbers suddenly had ten digits instead of seven?

Yep, same here.

Until we moved to Bismarck, where the phone book is more than a handy doorstop or a quarterly nuisance to drag to the recycle bin. (Assuming, of course, there was a recycling recepticle at the ready. But that's a story for another day.)

Upon moving into our home, our realtor Amy greeted us with the house keys and a warm welcome. She noticed there didn't seem to be a phone book around, and kindly offered to give us one of the extras she had in her office. We declined, brandishing iPad and Blackberry and bemused grins.

Fast forward to Valentine's Day. Dear Mike had arranged for a beautiful bouquet of red tulips to be delivered me at our home. Around 9 am, I received a call from Amanda, the delivery person.

"I have some flowers for you," she said. "But I can't find your house in the phone book. You know, on the map in the front. Where do you live?"

Our house has been here since 2002. We live in a fairly familiar part of town. Mike had given the florist our address and phone number.

I was excited about the flowers (which were beautiful, by the way -- what could be more precious than tulips when it's 30 below?), I bit my tongue and gave her directions.

In the ensuing weeks, we observed a related phenomenon: very few local businesses have their own websites. A Google search for everything from haircuts to hardware stores coughs up a list of aggregators. Marketing here is word of mouth, charmingly sincere radio advertising, and, you guessed it, the good old fashioned phone book.

On top of that, somehow GPS and Google maps are not yet in vogue. I have given everyone from the plumber to the electrician to the housekeeper directions to our place recently. In Seattle, you wouldn't insult someone's tech savvy by even offering. Here, it's common courtesy. That said, I can get by with "cross the river, get off at Mackenzie, and go left-right-left and stop at the white house" which seems to work even though our home does not have a number on it.

Recently, I spent nine days on the West Coast. I walked barefoot in the sand. I listened to top notch local radio. I drank really great coffee. I saw trees. And mountains. And had conversations about something other than the weather.

And I was homesick for this crazy flat snowy land, and a home that somehow is not on the map in the phone book.

Of Wizardry, Walleye and Wonder

Week 2 in Bismarck is on the books, and our good natured journey up the learning curve continues. The last few days have been filled with more adventure and insight -- and a hearty appreciation for what we've encountered.

Last Saturday night, we enjoyed our "first date" in town by taking in a Dakota Wizards basketball game. The Wizards are a development league squad, made up of young NBA hopefuls and recent NBA draft picks who were sent down from deep teams to get more playing experience instead of riding the bench behind experienced vets all season.

We watched some darn good ball from near-courtside seats, for $10 less than the nosebleeders at the top of Hec Edmundson Pavilion. The talented local gal singing the National Anthem (in jeans and a t-shirt!) put Christina Aguilera's Superbowl flub to even greater shame. The vibe was very fun and family focused, with shoot-around games for kids and grown-ups alike, an enthusiastic rendition of the chicken dance for all to participate in, autograph sessions with the players, and ready high fives and hugs from the team mascot, Dunkie.

This week, our appetite for adventure brought us into the local culinary scene. On Friday night we braved the rough and tumble Broken Oar, a workingman's bar on the Missouri River. The limited menu (Would you like the chicken and rice tonight? our sincere server asked) capped our experience at one light beer apiece. It was strange to hang out in an establishment where smoking is still allowed and stranger still to see boxes of cigarettes tucked between the Doritos and Pringles in the vending machine.

Emerging from the nicotine no worse for wear except for our hair and clothing, on we went to the Toasted Frog, a very nice restaurant which opened recently to much ado in downtown Bismarck. Detered by the lengthy wait, we decided to save that experience for later and found our way to the (smoke free!) Blarney Stone, a popular Irish-themed pub, with tasty food, friendly service, and a cozy atmosphere.

The most interesting culinary event of the week was our own attempt to cook the local favorite fish, the walleye. Walleye is a freshwater fish that looks a bit like a flat halibut, in the seafood case at Dan's Supermarket, anyway. While walleye can be baked and grilled, experts we trusted suggested breading and pan frying, which we did. Felt a little funny since our frying pan experience up to now has been limited to hash browns and the odd sauteed mushroom, but the result was actually very nice...alongside baked sweet potatoes and steamed asparagus, we'll call our first walleye dinner attempt a success!

In order to balance our gourmet indulgences, we needed to move around a bit. So we donned our new snowshoes (many thanks, Seattle Oppies!) and climbed around Fort Abraham Lincoln State Park, located about six miles from our house. The fort was built in 1872, primarily as a military outpost protecting the railway construction passing through the area at the time. We'll post separately as we learn more about the history of North Dakota, but for now here are a few shots of the vistas from the fort and our snowshoeing adventure. Windy, snowy, wonderful.

You've Got Mail.

The first three days we spent in Bismarck were colder than any I'd ever experienced -- or imagined possible. Even under bright sunny skies, after just a few minutes outdoors at 24 degrees below zero, an almost primal panic kicks in and an involuntary flight for cover follows. I need to find that box with my warm hats in it and unpack it, fast!

Life does seem to go on, even on very cold days, as people motor gingerly along on icy streets to the gym, the grocery store, and inevitably the drive-thru Starbucks, which boasts the only rush hour traffic jam in town, it seems.

I am sure we'll learn some tricks to cope with the cold, and even some ways to use it to our advantage. The first advice of this nature was shared with me by my new friend Dave the Mailman.

I had some mail to send out Wednesday morning, so I braved the elements in search of our mailbox, which I expected to find in its customary spot on either side of our driveway. It had snowed a great deal last weekend, and the fluffy white stuff had drifted up to several feet high around our yard...and frozen solid. I figured the mailbox was under one of the drifts, but wasn't sure where to start shoveling.

Enter Dave the Mailman, who rang our doorbell around 1 pm. Mike's sister and her family had sent us a lovely box full of housewarming goodies (thank you, Trish!), which Dave delivered with a smile.

"Do you know where our mailbox is?" I asked him, after introductions were made. "I think I will try to shovel it out when it warms up a little tomorrow."

With a wry smile Dave answered, "You don't have one. The last family who lived here used a P.O. box in town. So you'll need to put one in if you want one."

Together we looked across the yard and did the same math. The snow was high, and the ground will be frozen solid for months. Digging a post hole for a mailbox was out of the question.

"Here's what you can do," he said. "Get a mailbox and put it on a post. Fill a five gallon bucket with water. Put the post in the water, put the bucket outside, and it will stand up just fine until spring."

He saw my skepticism and assured me people do it all the time. Other local folks who have heard this story have just sort of smiled at us indulgently, so we're not sure what to think.

All I know is that it's been nice to see Dave the Mailman each afternoon since, as he's hand delivered the mail that is slowly starting to find its way to our new address. In a world with so much electronic correspondence, there's something awfully comforting about that.

We'll get the box up soon, and keep you posted about how we get it done!

Snow Day

Special Guest blog post from Mike:

We have received all kinds of advice and commentary on our decision to move to Bismarck, but today I want to focus on a specific area. Many of you have taken to following the weather in Bismarck for us, and delight in telling us the current temperature or snowfall. I have been trying to live in denial about this, but as our move nears completion, this is no longer possible. So, today, we talk about snow. Specifically, snow removal.

Shortly after we decided to move, I started gathering some intelligence on this subject. We have never owned a snow blower. In fact, until recently, we did not own a snow shovel. I was on a road trip a couple months ago with my friend Rick, who was in the process of moving to Bismarck, and my friend Dennis, who lives in Bismarck. Dennis asked how we dealt with snow in Seattle. I told him the second there is a quarter inch of snow on the ground, everyone freaks out, and the city comes to a halt until it melts. I wondered if he thought we could institute this system in Bismarck, but he doubted it. However, Dennis also told me that since Rick and I were both moving there, if we both bought brand new snow blowers, then Murphy’s law would ensure they would sit unused the entire first winter. Personally, I think my friend Dennis is full of it on this subject. I decided to stop worrying about it until we moved.

Then, in early January, I was at a dinner in Boise with several people who live in Bismarck. My friend Doug told a story about his own move to Bismarck in February. The temperature was below zero, the house was unlived in, and very cold, and the moving van was full of all their stuff, which by then was also below zero. He characterized it as moving thousands of pounds of ice into a freezer. Apparently the furnace ran for several days. As we are moving into our house in February, with temperatures expected to be in the single digits, I didn’t thank Doug for this great story.

But what was potentially worse, at the same dinner, my friend Del told me that by January or so, most stores no longer carry snow shovels. What?? Apparently, by then, everyone that needs one, has one, so the stores stop stocking them. Well, this was not good news. I shared this story with my friend Joanne, to see if Del was pulling my leg. Nope, true story. I also got more advice, Joanne shared that not all snow shovels are alike, some have cheap handles and break, and you really don’t want the kind that forces you to lift the snow. Now, this will tell you something about people in North Dakota. Joanne then went out on her own time that weekend to look around to find the best deal for me. She found that the store that had the good kind was down to their last one, so she bought it for me. Thanks again Joanne! Here is a picture of our shovel, which is called a “North Dakota snow blade.”

Next on our agenda is a snow blower. I have also gotten lots of advice about this. My other friend Dennis advised that I don’t get one that is too big, otherwise Karin will have trouble handling it. Karin did not see the humor in this advice. My friend Lee told me to make sure I get heated hand grips, that sounds like excellent advice. From Rick, make sure the chute turns a full 180 degrees so you can blow it where you want to. Sounds good. From lots of people, don’t drive on new snow in your drive way, shovel it or plow it right away while it is light. Makes sense.

Probably the best advice was from my friend Andrea, who recommended that we buy a house next to a retired guy with a snow blower or mini-plow, as they love using them. I hope we followed this advice!

One Way Road Trip

As we pulled out of Seattle late this morning, it occurred to me how odd it was to be on a road trip that wasn't some sort of a loop. Half the fun of road trips is to think about what you will differently "on the way home." This time, "the way home" for us does not involve a return journey, which, my friends, is sort of a surreal thing.

Procrastination and reluctance (and a really comfortable bed!) kept us from the early start we'd planned from Seattle.

We went back to the empty but sparkly clean house and loaded up the kind of odds and ends you take on a one-way road trip. Here are at least 5 I never thought I'd travel halfway across America with:

1. Bonsai plant given to me by Pete in 2006 and I've managed to keep alive

2. Fishtank that movers refused to take

3. Piece of lead pipe that Mike welded "Hi Karin" on when he was learning how in the mid 1990s

4. TV stand that Jerry took off the wall for me yesterday because Mike's tools were already gone

5. Two stuffed meerkats named Suricatta and Kalahari who think they

know the way better than the nav system on the car

Leaving town, Mike very sweetly routed us over the 520 bridge so I could say goodbye to the Madison Park swimmin' hole as we sped by. A favorite P.D. James audio book purloined at the last minute from the Seattle Public Library kept us company for the next 450 miles or so into Missoula. We were through Idaho in a blink and encountered a little snow on Lookout Pass as we entered Montana, but all in all the road was kind to us. T Mobile, not so much. I have had zero cell coverage since Spokane. So sorry if you are trying to reach us...will be back on the grid soon I hope!

Ready for sleep and looking forward to enjoying Montana in the daylight tomorrow.

We're in this together.

Awhile back a friend of mine (who does not live here) asked me "who will you miss the most when you leave Seattle?"

With only a little contemplation, the narcissist that I am answered, "me."

Sure, I will miss the girl that lives for early morning lake swims, and the tall Starbucks drip with room that inevitably follows. I will miss the peruser of pumpkin patches, you know her, the one with her face turned up to the rain and the perpetual bad hair day. The one who loves to ride up Juanita Hill, and go barrelling recklessly down it. The one who knows the cemeteries and gardens, the secretest beaches and clearest mountain views. The one who knows the radio stations, past and present. The drinking fountains that work all year round on the bike and running routes. The one whose best weeks start with an 11th century tradition sung loud and lovely.

There's no doubt I will miss the Seattle person that I am. But over the last month I've come to realize it isn't me that I can't leave behind, it's all of you. So guess what? I'm bringing you with me.

Thank you for filling my kitchen with your noise and your love.

For snowshoes and conversation. A papier mache mermaid. A hand written note. A magical storybook given and received. A massage. Sad eyes that said I am picturing my world without you in it every day, and I don't like it. A hat you knitted yourself. Space Needle shaped pasta. A rainbow of spectacularly glamorous nailpolish bottles, one from each, and the poetically perfect final blue. For sharing a shamelessly enormous bacon cheeseburger. For a workout of my choice: 4 x 100 for time sandwiched between stroke sets. For Seattle Starbucks mugs. For the time you didn't have to give, but you gave it anyway. A candle. A beer at the local. A heart shape that will hold four distant souls together. For calling. For holding my hand. Loaning me your step ladder. A lunch break spent watching the meerkats at the zoo. For Little House on the Prairie. And a reminiscent relishing of a Peet's vanilla latte together. For staying late and doing the dishes. For telling me about the thing you remember me saying or doing that you think might have changed you. For coming to my last speech.

For crying, and for not crying.

And for being in my heart and making me what I am, wherever I go. Whether you like it or not, you're moving to North Dakota, too.