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February, 2012

  1. Curling “Swept” Me Off My Feet… Literally

    February 26, 2012 by Becoming Midwestern

    The reason I'm a little black and blue today.

    Curling. Ever heard of it? If you’re anything like me, your knowledge of curling is a vague recollection of a bizarre sport you catch glimpses of every four years during the Winter Olympics when you’re waiting for speed skating to come on. You know it involves some sort of puck/stone thing and people furiously sweeping the ice for some reason. While I knew very little about the sport I was thrilled when my department decided to bond over curling at the FM Curling Club this weekend.

    We arrived and were told to slip on a pair of curling shoes– one had a rubber sole and the other had a slick plastic surface, perfect for sliding… or I soon realized… falling. As I starred out over the ice I thought, “Shuffle board on ice? How hard could this be?” After all, curling is the sport with the oldest Winter Olympian ever: 54 year old Scott Baird on the US Olympic Curling Team. (Yes, I definitely just looked that up). If a 54 year old could do it, my youthful self would have no problem. Boy… was I ever wrong.

    We were told to warm up by practicing pushing off the edge of the rink and seeing how far we could slide by lunging forward across the ice. Almost simultaneously a group of us pushed off the edge and proceeded to fall flat on our stomachs. This was going to be a little more tricky than I had thought and it was about to get a lot more difficult. After we had given up on our “warm ups” we were ready to practice pushing off the starter block with a stone in hand. Again, epic fail on my part. I slid a solid 2 feet before proceeding to wipe out. Next it was time to practice sweeping. We took our curling brooms and walked up and down the ice trying to keep up with the stone sliding behind us. I don’t know when the last time I had laughed so hard as watching grown men and women screaming at stones to speed up or slow down while furiously sweeping their brooms back and forth as their team mates yelled “SWEEEEEP” at the top of their lungs. Eventually I “found my footing” and it was time for a match.

    In a nutshell, here are the rules: Each team is composed of 4 players. The goal is to shoot your stones… called “rocks”… down the ice into the “house” (basically a bullseye). Two other members of your team sweep the ice with a curling broom that looks more like a mop than a broom, in order to melt the ice and speed up the rock or curve it in some direction. Similar to bocce ball, whatever team has the most rocks closest to the center of the house (or button) wins. For more accurate and detailed rules I highly recommend the Wikipedia page I keep referring to.

    Even though the combined experience between the 15 or so of us was about zero years, we caught on quickly thanks to a few tips, and a lot of patience, from a club member. Even though I didn’t score a single time and my knees are a little black and blue today, it was an amazing experience that I highly recommend. After all, when else do you get to shoot rocks and houses and get away with it?

     

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  2. Aurora Alert!

    February 20, 2012 by Becoming Midwestern

    When I first realized I was moving to North Dakota there were few things that sounded appealing to me. I was told that the winters are freezing, the snow is ridiculous, everything is a giant mud puddle in the spring and mosquitoes are out of control in the summer. “Why would anyone ever live in a place like that?” I thought. Obviously my opinion has changed since the big move and I’ve found plenty to love. However, before I realized the jewel that is North Dakota, there was only one consolation that seemed worth while about my move: seeing the Northern Lights.

    Ever since I learned about the Aurora Borealis in elementary school, it had been a dream of mine to see in person. When I was informed that if the conditions are just right its possible to see them in North Dakota, I was overjoyed. The problem: its really difficult to figure out when the conditions are just right. The other problem: its really difficult to see them in Fargo. Luckily for me, my boyfriend Blake shared the same dream with me. He too has wanted to see the Northern Lights since he was little. This meant that he whole heartily supported my crazy claims when I thought certain nights during the past year and a half that we’ve lived here were optimal Aurora spotting nights. I would search websites trying to figure out the scientific calculation, lining up the latitude and longitude lines… or whatever you’re suppose to do… and then suddenly scream up the stairs at odd hours: “Ok! It’s Aurora time! Let’s go!” We would drive a few miles out of Fargo only to realize that if you can’t see stars, you probably can’t see the Lights.

    With less free time on my hands now that I’m fully immersed in grad school, my random hobby of “predicting” when it was optimal viewing time had been set aside. The other night however, as I was crawling into bed, I decided to take one more stalk through Facebook to see what other people are up to at 12:30 a.m. on a Saturday night. That’s when I noticed that Valley News Live had posted an alert: AURORA SIGHTINGS!! So what if they were near Grand Forks? I hopped out of bed, screamed up the stairs, and no sooner had we pulled on a pair of slippers and grabbed the car keys that we were headed out the door… pajama pants and all.

    One thing we knew was that we should drive north (duh) and we should get away from Fargo. How far? I didn’t know. I kept refreshing my Facebook alert on my phone and saw statements from witnesses that seemed to mock our efforts a little more with each minute that passed Aurora-less: “I saw them! They’re amazing!” or “The best I’ve ever seen!” or “This is truly breath taking!” I couldn’t take it anymore. Somewhere about 20 miles north of Fargo I told Blake to take the next exit and hit the back roads where there are no street lights that would interfere. It was now or never. After all, I had no idea how long they would last.

    As we crept down a pitch-black gravel road, it was remarkable we didn’t drive straight into a ditch. Both of us were glued to the windows and starring north into the night sky. We finally stopped the car and got out. “There it is!” exclaimed Blake. I squinted my eyes and asked, “What? You mean that really light, barely visible, greenish/blueish streak?” Yep. That was it. We had seen the Northern Lights. Unfortunately, we were a little too far south to get the full effect that everyone had been reporting about on Facebook so enthusiastically.

    After a few failed attempts to take a picture (straight blackness isn’t much of a photo-op), we gave up and headed back towards Fargo. It was now about 1:30 a.m. and I was ready to crash… for real this time. While we were admittedly a little disappointed, I was comforted by the fact that the reports were true. It was possible to see the Northern Lights in North Dakota… I’d just have to wait a little longer.  So even though the winters are freezing, the snow is ridiculous, everything is a giant mud puddle in the spring, and mosquitoes are out of control in the summer– we’ve got the Northern Lights.

     

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  3. Warming up on Frozen Ice

    February 5, 2012 by Becoming Midwestern

    The reason we missed our turn. Straight out of Narnia, right?

    The other day a reader sent me a link to a story that was truly “Midwestern”. It was about a bar. A bar on a lake. I don’t mean next to a lake, but literally, ON a lake. Ice Hole Bar, located in Lake Lida, Minnesota, opened this winter. The bar caters to fishermen (and curious outsiders) wishing to warm their bones with a little barley pop and assorted spirits. It took me about three seconds into the article before I had new weekend plans. I had to see this.

    My boyfriend Blake, always enthusiastic about a new Midwestern adventure, said he would accompany me on this hour trek to Lake Lida. We set off towards the lake and soon realized we were lost. The dense fog and lack of GPS guidance spelled disaster. We must have gotten twisted around while gawking at every frozen lake we passed and the breathtaking trees covered with Hoar Frost (definitely just learned this phrase) that looked straight out of Narnia. I soon began to panic. Where the heck were we? Just as I began to recommend we give up and head home, the fog began to part and across the frozen landscape appeared a golden shack of hope. We were here. Or… well… sort of. I told Blake we could just park near the shore and walk out to the bar. Though I saw trucks driving out on the

    Ice Hole Bar, Lake Lida, MN

    frozen water I didn’t want to take my chances. Ice was not for driving on. Of course Blake ignored me and claimed the only way we could get the true Midwestern experience was to drive my little blue car out onto the lake. As I screamed with protests and threatened to jump out of the moving vehicle, down the boat launch we rolled and onto solid ice. We krept forward. Silence. No cracking. No creaking. Ok… let’s do this.

    After about a quarter mile we arrived at our destination. We parked my little car next to two

    Little ice house shanty town

    giant trucks and got out. That first step on a frozen lake might be the closest I ever get to feeling

    what Neal Armstrong must have felt taking his first steps on the moon. “One small step for man, one giant leap for Midwestern kind”. It took a while for my brain to register what my eyes were seeing. With the combination of fog and frost, it looked as if the entire landscape had been painted in shades of white and grey. The only thing interrupting the whiteness were tiny fish houses dotting the barren landscape. It reminded me of a little frozen shanty town. After a few quick photos we decided to wet our whistle inside the bar… purely for anthropological purposes of course. After all, how can you really understand the culture unless you experience it yourself, right?

    We opened the door into a room about the size of a small trailer. There were a few bar stools, two bench seats and a handful of folding chairs. An electric fireplace was mounted on one end of the bar and a flat screen TV (complete with Direct TV) was on

    Blake trying his hand at ice fishing.

    the other side. Towards the far end of the room were two ice holes with line dangling in and a bucket of bait close by. We grabbed a drink and were soon told to pull up a chair next to some fellow patrons. It didn’t take long for us to strike up some great conversations with the locals. For the next two hours I had died and gone to Midwestern heaven. I learned about different local fish, swapped hotdish recipes,

    Baiting my hook

    raved about NDSU and their amazing football season, and even baited my own hook. (Don’t worry DNR… I didn’t actually fish). Eventually the conversation took the inevitable turn to how in the world we ended up in Fargo and my favorite experiences so far. Of course that very moment was already heading towards the top of my list. People laughed as I talked about my first time driving in heavy snow, my confusion with the phrase “I suppose” and how I cried after watching the movie Fargo for fear that it was a good representation of the state I was about to move to. The only downfall of the entire trip: I made the mistake of taking off my coat and revealing my JMU t-shirt. “WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU WEARING THAT FOR IN HERE?” Whoops.

    It was soon time to say our goodbyes and make our way back to Fargo. We shook a few hands, snapped a few photos and hit the road. On our way back we couldn’t stop raving about the past few hours. Our favorite part: The fishing? The beer? Driving on the ice? No way. Like all things that make the Midwest so enjoyable, it was the people. After all, it isn’t everywhere that even in the middle of a frozen lake, you can find warmth.

    Best. Day. Ever.

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  4. A Gentleman and a Scholar!

    February 2, 2012 by Becoming Midwestern

    If you have ever questioned whether chivalry was dead, you clearly have not visited the Midwest. While yes, most of us have heard of “Midwestern nice”, chivalry is just a little bit different. It is one thing for the cashier at the grocery store to ask you about your day and to seem sincerely interested, but it is an all together different phenomenon when a door is held for you by a young man below the age of 30.

    I was raised in a household where “please” and “thank you” were required and beginning a request with “may” instead of “can” was imperative. On top of polite vocabulary, it was not uncommon for my mom to “encourage” me to hold the door open for any woman or man that was within a quarter mile from us at the mall, church or any place that didn’t have automatic doors. I was raised to be a polite young lady.

    When I went off to college I began to notice that this “politeness” did not extend very often to those of the opposite sex between the ages of 18-22. In fact, it was not uncommon for me to be walking into a building behind a young man and have the door smash into me. While I pride myself on being an independent and liberated woman, I have it engrained in me that men should hold the door open for women. Who cares about car doors? Who needs help down or up stairs? Not me. I can do it myself. All I care about is having a door held open for me. Was I shocked? No. I figured men went through a phase during their teens and twenties where chivalry wasn’t exactly on their radar, kind of like good hygiene and green vegetables.

    Then I moved to North Dakota. I didn’t think much about the chivalrous nature of the young male residents until today. As I was hurrying across campus, strategically cutting through buildings to avoid the morning chill, doors were held for me not once, not twice, but three times. Three. Seriously. And these were not elderly gentleman. These were the notoriously un-chivalrous 18-22 year olds. I began to reflect on this oddity searching for an explanation. Was it my seniority over them as a college instructor that intimidated them into door holding? No, that can’t be because unless you have  witnessed with your own eyes my instruction, you would have a hard time believing I was over the age of 18 led alone old enough to teach. Was it my dazzling good looks that make men race towards the next door I am about to breeze through for a chance to hold it open for me? No, that is clearly not the case being that I was running late this morning and… well… lets just say my radiance was a little rough around the edges. In fact, it had nothing to do with me at all because I had seen this occur with other women throughout the state, young and old. The answer? Midwestern upbringing.

    So to you parents that have taught your boys to hold open doors for ladies, I thank you. Chivalry is still alive an kicking in the young men of the Midwest.

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