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.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
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.
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.
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