Year: 2013

I wrote last time about the dangers of driving on our roads. A few days later, in a sad irony, those very roads took one of our own. It’s different then. When I see in the newspaper every week the accidents and deaths on the oil field highways, I feel sympathy, but a distant sympathy. I don’t know them. They don’t know me. They usually hail from states like Arkansas and Washington and Wyoming. I feel bad for their families for a fleeting moment, and then I move on to the next story. It’s hard not to become a little numb to all the accidents when they happen so often.

This time, it’s different. This time, it hits close to home.

On March 23, a sunny Saturday morning, my cousin Rory was killed in an accident with a semi on a major highway only miles from our farm. Rory was 30 years old, a young 30. Sometimes he seemed more like 22 or 23. He had lived in the oil field for the past two years, originally hailing from Reno, Nevada, but always connected to western North Dakota and especially his Grandpa Tom, an Irish farmer who was a lifelong native of the area. Rory came here to stay in 2011, the same year I did, and quickly made a name for himself with his love for action and persistence to engage anyone and everyone around him in a debate. Locals began to recognize his boisterous laugh and crooked hat. He lived in his little four-room cabin in the bottom of a tree-filled break, drove around a dusty Dodge Neon or one of two old pickups — depending on the day — and took his dog Holiday with him wherever he went. Rory was especially close to two of my brothers. I have to admit, Rory wasn’t always on my good side. He liked to push my buttons and more often than not, I allowed him to, but in the end Rory was a loyal cousin and friend. We had a couple good conversations that last week when he came in visit during my shift at the hotel, the last time I talked to him before his accident. Of course, he didn’t leave that night without one last debate between us: this one over the pronunciation of Phuket, Thailand. (Our debates, as you can see, often involved matters of little to no real importance.) I don’t think we ever figured out who was right… Oh well.

I wish I could write everything I want to write about Rory. I spoke some words about our friend-foe relationship at his family service, and I think that’s where those words will have to stay. For now, I have had my fill of memories and sad farewells. But I don’t feel I could continue to write a cheeky blog about the oil field without recognizing some of the harsh realities, the losses that we experience in the untamed face of progress. The oil field is bringing our area a lot of possibilities and exciting opportunities. But sometimes… sometimes it takes just a little too much in return.

Rory is lying at rest next to his Grandpa Tom in a small western North Dakota cemetery, only yards away from my own Grandpa Tim and Grandma Marjorie. They lie there under granite headstones, memories of the past homesteading days and casualties of the current energy-producing madhouse. They lie there as reminders to give what we can, remember those who have gone before us and most importantly, appreciate the ones still left around us.

Because sometimes, we don’t think about those things enough until it’s one of our own who reminds us.

When my Grandma Tim died in 2005, I wrote a poem that was inspired by his life in western North Dakota and, more specifically, the small cemetery where he is buried. I thought it was fitting for Rory too, so I’m sharing it below.

Prairie Winds 

The meadowlark is singing, singing sweetly sad its song
Its melody is simple, caring not for right or wrong
How can it know of mortal pain
When singing sweet its song?

The prairie wind is blowing, breezing softly by the bales
The grasses dip their heads before its never-ending gales
What does it care for life or death?
Its forces never fail.

The endless sky is stretching, sunlight sinking to the west
It glows upon a graveyard where beloved lie at rest
It shines there but a moment
And it gathers to the west

A man is but a memory, a twinkling of the eye
His time is like the prairie wind, a softly fading sigh
Only he can sing his song before he passes by
And goes to meet his Maker in the endless prairie sky.

Rest in Peace, Rory. Here’s one last North Dakota sunset for ya.

Lately, our highways in the oil field have been getting more media coverage with the increase in accidents, traffic congestion and difficulty of travel in winter weather. This topic is nothing new, but I thought I would throw together a little list of “Rules of the Road: Oil Field Edition.” Young drivers in our state have to study the Rules of the Road handbook when they prepare to take a permit test. Maybe drivers should have to study a new set of rules when they move to the oil field. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Drive here for long, and you will probably end up with a handful of crazy stories and close calls.

For example, I mentioned the pickups passing me on glare ice in my last post. Another case in point: A few Saturdays ago, I drove my little bus crammed full of speech kids to Mott, ND; and somewhere around the first crack of daylight and my 15^th yawn, I watched a pickup in front of me attempt to pass a semi uphill and in fog so thick you could cut it with a knife. Of course, a pair of headlights came straight at him out of the fog, and he was forced to take the ditch. Thank goodness the oncoming vehicle didn’t take the same ditch at the same time, or they would have collided right to the left of us.

These incidents have got me thinking about the changes in our previously quiet little Midwest corner. It’s not simply an issue of “traffic” like they have in larger metropolitan areas; and of course, crazy drivers exist everywhere. It’s more the issue of the traffic’s makeup. It’s the thousands of semis, pickups, and more semis crammed onto two-lane highways that were not built to accommodate them. According to a recent edition of the McKenzie County Farmer, up to 12,000 vehicles a day pass through the nearby little town of Alexander. Who could have predicted such a dramatic turn? I remember once about 12 years ago, my Grandpa Tim, an old farmer from the area, commented to me, “Boy, Rachel, I sure saw a lot of traffic this morning. It’s getting crazy around here. I counted seven vehicles on the way to town!” (He lived three miles out of Alexander.) I laughed then, but part of me wonders what he would think about the current state of his hometown if he were around to see it.

Anyway, back to the driving advice. Here are just a few Rules of the Road, Oil Field Edition:

1. Avoid Left Turns Whenever Possible: Left turns are dreaded here!  You might sit for half an hour waiting for your chance to break through a traffic gap. If you are forced to make a left turn on any well-traveled highway, keep one eye on your rearview mirror, lest one of the semis barreling down upon you doesn’t notice that you have stopped to turn left. Yikes. Gives me the willies every time.

2. Know the Back Roads: You never know when you might need them. Back roads have saved me hours of waiting behind accidents and traffic jams while trying to make it to work or back to my farm. Even hearing the words “back roads” gives me warm fuzzies (kind of like the words “left turn” gives me willies: see Rule #1). Do some back roads exploring even when you don’t need to. It might save you a major headache tomorrow or next week.

3. Ignore Rock Chips As Long As Possible: Rock chips WILL happen. Currently, I have 6 or 7 cracks in my windshield. But if I rushed in to replace it, another one would most likely appear within a week or two. Truthfully, your car will mostly likely not look as pretty after some time in the oil field. Besides the rock chips in your windshield, you may have rock chips and dents on the body of the vehicle, a thick layer of mud or dust that returns the day after you get a car wash, and other unsightly oil-related things. Recently, on a new semi driver’s first day on the job, he accidentally drove his tanker through town (a big no-no and a $500 fine; they are supposed to use the truck bypass), ended up stuck in the high school school parking lot, and struck and dented one of my student’s vehicles trying to turn around. This proves your vehicle may not be safe anywhere.

Poor guy. Hope he found a new job by now.

Really, you should not bring your new shiny vehicles to the oil field if you care about the aesthetic appeal. Although I love my little gray SUV, the good news is, I have grown up in a family who has never wasted much time or concern on the outer appearance of vehicles. My dad is a pretty well-known lawyer in Bismarck and still drives around old Buicks with the mirrors duct-taped on. I wish I had pictures of the collection of vehicles he has driven around or parked in front of our house. Once, I saw a little car sputtering blue smoke in Bismarck. I chuckled, and then when I got closer, realized it was none other than my dad driving my old high school vehicle, a Plymouth Reliant. All I could do was shake my head. The old Reliant didn’t last much longer after that.

I digress, but the point is, leave your shiny vehicles at home if you want them to stay shiny.

4. Finally, Avoid Road Rage Whenever Possible: Yes, you will have bad experiences. Yes, semis will pull out in front of you; pickups will pass you only to turn a half mile later; other pickups will pass you on glare ice and uphill in the fog. It is even worse when you attempt to move farm equipment that tops out at 20 mph. Then people REALLY get mad. (I will have to write more about that later.) But as the popular slogan plastered all over the Internet these days says, just Keep Calm and Carry On. I may or may not have given in to righteous anger on the road a time or two, but it’s not worth it. All I can say is, follow a few basic guidelines to best avoid road rage: hug the white line, keep your distance, and ignore the idiots as much as you can.

So there you have it. Four basic rules, but they may save your life, your sanity, or a few minutes of your time. There probably isn’t much we can do about the traffic, but we can do our parts as drivers to make the oil field a safer place. Hopefully, the state of North Dakota will continue to pitch in throughout the duration of the oil boom in an ongoing effort to improve the quality and capacity of our highways. Meanwhile, keep up the good fight out there on the highway… and wave at me if you can see me through the rock chips.

This week in Boomtown Diaries, I’m turning my focus away from the oil field, from teaching, from farming, from life in western North Dakota and am writing a few words instead regarding a very special lady. This Saturday, March 2, this very special lady turns 81. She is my Grandma Marilyn: Grandma extraordinaire, baker of beautiful cakes, sewer of baby blankets, coupon saver, North Dakota farm wife, and defender and protector of grandkids.

When you think of an ideal grandma, you might as well picture mine. When I was little, I used to spend days or weeks on her farm in northeast North Dakota. My grandma and I would walk the gravel road with the dogs, catch kittens in the old red barn, smell lilacs, swing on the stained wood garden swing, and take trips into town for donuts and milk. I would cry every time I left her to go back to my parents. (Although to be fair, I usually cried when I left my parents too. What can I say; I’ve always been a softy.)

When I was in 6th grade, she and my Grandpa Wayne retired from farming and moved to Bismarck permanently to be closer to their eight grandkids. It was a dream come true. Now my ideal grandma lived right across the cemetery from us, only a bike ride away. My parents made me mad? I would go to Grandma’s. I was craving homemade cake frosting? I would go to Grandma’s. I was home sick from school? Those were the best days! I would go to Grandma’s, and she would lavish me with attention, love, and cups of Sprite while we watched Price is Right together. I admit, I may have faked illness a time or two.

Before I knew Grandma Marilyn as my grandma, she was a fiery North Dakota farm wife for much of her life. She grew up in the Great Depression, was Valedictorian of her class in the small town of Michigan, received a teaching certificate from Mayville State, and taught in a one-room prairie schoolhouse before marrying my Grandpa Wayne. They had been in high school together but didn’t become a couple until after she scared off a pretty blonde he was with at a dance. (Well, my grandpa says she was pretty. My grandma says she wasn’t.) They lived on an Army base in Utah for a while and then in an apartment over a shop back in the town of Michigan while my grandpa drove a truck for Sweetheart Bread, worked as a farm hand, and finally, purchased his own farm outside of town when my mother was little.

Although they don’t farm anymore, my grandparents are true North Dakota pioneers. They have strong Norwegian roots, a rich history of scratching out a living from the eastern North Dakota soil, and some pretty entertaining stories of my grandma working as my grandpa’s farm hand, usually as a grain truck driver. My grandma also makes some mean lefse and krumkake in case you were wondering. She makes mean lots of things, actually. One mystery I’ve never figured out is why her smushed-up eggs taste so much better than mine do, and even her toast. What the heck? How does she do it?

I could never fit enough stories into one blog post to describe my Grandma Marilyn. It would take a whole book. Fast forward to her 81st year, and you have one award-winning grandma. At least, if there were Grandma Awards, she would get one. She shows up to everything even remotely involving her grandkids. She would show up at my high school and college cross country meets where it was sleeting so hard it was blowing sideways, just to watch a race that lasted for less than 20 minutes. In fact, she has shown up at every track meet, baseball game, basketball game, football game, soccer game (you get the picture) plus every piano recital, spelling bee and music festival in which my brothers, cousins and I have performed. On weeks of regional basketball tournaments, she usually doesn’t sleep. She is either too nervous thinking about the game the next day, or too excited thinking about the game the night before. Last fall, she and my grandpa showed up at a crowded bar to watch Danny and I play a Halloween show with our bluegrass band The Dwaylors. She chose a seat at a small table on the edge of the dance floor. When a tall young man dressed as a cowboy got in her way, she tapped him neatly on the shoulder and politely demanded that he move out of the way so she could see her grandkids. He moved. The best part was, within a few minutes, he became her personal bouncer and was clearing out all the other costume-wearing Halloween revelers who blocked her view of the stage.

Grandma Marilyn is more than just our #1 Fan.  Anytime my brothers, cousins or I need someone to have our backs, we have Grandma. If a ref calls a foul against one of my brothers, he is crooked. If a boyfriend or girlfriend breaks one of our hearts, he or she has no brains. If we aren’t named Valedictorians, the books are probably rigged.

But who doesn’t need at least one unwavering supporter in life? Shouldn’t we all have someone who knows we can do no wrong, who has our backs no matter what and is always smiling and holding a plate of cookies? I know that the eight of us grandkids would consider ourselves the luckiest grandkids alive.

In her 81st year, I hope this very special lady, North Dakota pioneer and Grandma Extraordinaire, finds just a piece of the love and happiness that she has given all of us. And since she has, true to form, become the most devoted reader of Boomtown Diaries since blog post #1, I know she is reading this on her basement computer. So I love you, Grandma! Happy birthday week!

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines “empty” as “containing nothing; not occupied or inhabited.” In 2008, National Geographic printed an article titled “The Emptied Prairie” by Charles Bowden, who discourses poetically on the fall of the wide North Dakota plains into decay, deserted by its human inhabitants. It opens: “In the early 20th century, railroads lured settlers into North Dakota with promises of homesteads. Towns were planted everywhere. Houses rose from the sweep of the plains, many, like this one, with a story no one can trace. People believed rain would follow the plow. But they were wrong.” The sub-heading reads, “North Dakota ghost towns speak of an irreversible decline.”

Intriguing…

In the article, Bowden elaborates on the population decline that had plagued North Dakota for years, especially in its rural areas. It describes the state of the prairie, mentioning towns that “fall one by one like autumn leaves in the chill of October.” He paints a chilling and lonely picture, describing deer bones, rusting cars, and scattered remnants of human life. Of course, the photography accompanying the article just has to include a creepy picture of an abandoned doll staring through glass eyes covered with dirt and spider webs. There is nothing that speaks “despair” like a broken doll. It reminds me of Titanic documentaries I’ve seen.

The article also mentions Epping, a tiny town in western North Dakota, which then had a population of 75 according to the article. Ironically, Epping is located only about 20 miles northeast of Williston, placing it right near the hub of the Bakken oil field. Today, I bet the residents of Epping would have something different to discuss besides the emptiness of the prairie around them.

An especially interesting quote in the article reads, “That’s the rub of rural North Dakota, a sense of things ebbing, of churches being abandoned, schools shutting down, towns becoming ruins.” I look at the new students entering my high school weekly and new buildings popping up in Watford City daily, and realize just how ironic this article really is. The article does mention oil resources, but it was printed before our oil boom really took off, so author Bowden could not have realized just how wrong he was about to be. It’s not even that he was “wrong.” There are abandoned farmsteads scattered across the prairie across the Midwest – they are one of my favorite photography subjects. I’ve always been fascinated with the dreams left behind by homesteaders. It’s also true that our population was on the decline for years, especially among young people entering the work force. But I just love the irony of this article: our area of North Dakota, a state barely on the map until recently, is not exactly empty anymore.

In fact, western North Dakota has made it onto a much bigger map: the famous satellite light map. Some of you may have seen this before. It’s a pretty cool satellite illustration of urban areas at night. The area in and around North Dakota used to be quite dark, considering it was, well, rather empty. Fargo had a sort-of bright spot. Minneapolis-St. Paul was probably the closest thing to an actual bright spot. But NPR’s website recently published a piece called “A Mysterious Patch of Light Shows Up in the North Dakota Dark.” The satellite light map now shows a noticeable bright spot right in western North Dakota. Unlike other light patches, this one is made not of city lights but oil activity, particularly rigs and flares.

Look below:

An excerpt from the accompanying article reads, “Six years ago, this region was close to empty. The few ranchers who lived here produced wheat, alfalfa, oats, and corn. The U.S. Geological Survey knew there were oil deposits under ground, but deep down, 2 miles below the surface… There are now so many gas wells burning flares in the North Dakota night, the fracking fields can be seen from deep space.”

Here is a closer view:

These two articles show two very opposite sides of western North Dakota: the first, the fearful isolation of a deserted prairie, and the second, the overwhelming activity created by progress. The most ironic thing is, these articles are only a few years apart. Who would have known that “empty” could change so fast?

If I had to be honest, sometimes I kind of miss empty. I miss the dark. I miss the lonely openness. But a wise five-year-old once told me, “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.” So rather than throw a fit, I try to remember the good that is happening here and still appreciate the irony of “empty.”

You can find the original National Geographic article here.

And the original NPR blog here.

We’ve all been through it. A conversation lulls; an awkward silence ensues. What do I say next? we wonder, so naturally, we fall back on the weather: “I heard there is a storm coming this weekend,” or, “Can you believe how warm it is for December?” But here in the Northern Plains during the long, cold winter months, weather is more than just small talk. We talk about the weather with a little touch of pride. Where else do grandparents drive 60 miles an hour through raging blizzards without batting an eye?

I just adore winter. Winter is awesome. I love the extremities, and North Dakota always goes all out in that regard. Right now as I write, it is -2 degrees outside. Of course, sometimes winter can be a real pain in the arse. I have been knocked out for weeks with some type of horrible flu of death/evil cold virus/muscle-weakening disease of wicked proportions. Twice last week, I rolled in to school from my 12-mile drive a half hour late, right when the first bell was ringing, because pickups were sliding all over the highways. Two nights ago, I came home from dinner in town with friends to find that I couldn’t see the edge of my highway through the angry swirling snowflakes storming across the road. I went by pure instinct, ended up on the shoulder only once and breathed a sigh of relief when I thought I saw the blurry edges of the mailbox marking the driveway.

Although it was below zero after school on Friday, I grabbed my camera and trudged through the snow to capture a few pictures before the light faded and my fingers froze off. I was supposed to be at school taking tickets for a boys basketball game, but the opposing team couldn’t make it through the blizzard and the game was postponed. So I took advantage of my rare opportunity to be home before sunset and captured just a little taste of the extremities around me.

Drivers around here lately have been seeing a lot of this:

Does this look like a desolate wasteland? Ok, yes, right now it pretty much looks like the movie Fargo. I still like it, though. And I’m not the only one.

Lucy plays in the snow:

Blackjack rolls in the snow:

Chico explores in the snow:

And Jake eats horse poop in the snow. Everyone is happy!

And the photographer? Well, a little winter exploring always puts a smile on my face. Even if it’s a bit of a frozen one.

The weather might be just small talk, but when it’s this extreme, it’s a little more than that. It’s a bonding experience with people around us going through the same thing, and with our animals out playing in the snow. If we can survive this, and if we can all make it spring together, then we can worry about what to talk about next.