What a long, strange trip it's been ...

On the other side of Willow Creek, life is brand new

I’ve missed the routine of this newsletter, and I’ve missed you all too. I have a full heart when I write, knowing you are on the other side of this digital connection.

To write anything today, I had to clear away stacks of sheets, towels and a pile of clothes on my folding table desk and move the odd tub of looseleaf tea (what is that even doing in here?) and the crate of shoes on the floor. (Asking for a friend, how many shoes can someone have before it’s officially deemed a problem?)

I’ve moved, and this move wasn’t a simple one. I am now a resident of Fargo, North Dakota, and I just completed a full week as the assistant features and business editor at the Forum of Fargo-Moorehead.

My badge, making it official: As of Jan. 8, I am an employee of the Forum of Fargo-Moorhead. As well, I’m too rad to be sad, according to the note left at my desk by the prior employee.

I am thrilled to have found work as an editor in my field, given the challenging state of the local news industry. Since 2005 in the U.S., one-third of our newspapers have shuttered, eliminating two-thirds of the nation’s journalism jobs, according to the Associated Press. Many journalists are out of work or switching fields all-together — a move I tried with little success (turns out, I suck at being a corporate cog and truly despise marketing, a field that pays you to lie, full-time).

When I left the Dofe House Residency in late December, I was rich with the time I had to write, unfettered.

Well … Somewhat unfettered. I was unemployed, looking for full time work, and it was always in the back of my mind that I was running low on funds to live. Though my business, Pen & Paige, has supplied me a good stream of revenue, it simply wasn’t enough to stay in Montana with the rapidly rising costs of EVERYTHING.

Leaving Montana was a decision I weighed heavily, and it came down to my heart’s calling: journalism. Full time journalism. Living, breathing, MAKING MONEY from journalism. I have pieced my income together for a long time, including teaching, bartending and stints in the nonprofit management world, and nothing makes me happier than being in a newsroom.

I will remain an occasional contributor for Montana Free Press, but in March I will conclude my tenure as co-host of Resounds: Arts and Culture on the High Plains, which I founded with Corby Skinner seven years ago. Corby and I recorded some fantastic shows during my time in the Bozeman area, so watch for those programs to continue through the spring.

Corby will continue Resounds, and though he told me I’m “irreplaceable,” I know he’s looking at a new co-host to continue the program focused on conversations with artists living and working in the intermountain west. Who knows, I might even have a few guest spots in the future!

Love, at many sights

I would not have been searching for jobs in Fargo if it weren’t for my longtime partner Matt Taggart. He and I combined our lives years ago but have been living separately for many of those years. It was time to come together, and Matt has an excellent job working as a supervisor in the lab at Vitalant, a large blood donation center in Fargo.

What can I say? We’re in love! And we have a lot of unpacking to do…

It’s honestly laughable to see me navigating the flatlands of Fargo. I have no defining characteristic, like the Billings rims, or the Beartooth Mountains, to be my guide. Though I am living along the Red River that borders North Dakota and Minnesota, I have no clue which way is east most days.

I confessed being directionally challenged to one of the newspaper’s contributors, and they were surprised. “You don’t know which way is east? Well, if you are heading to Moorhead, you are heading east, because Minnesota is to the east.”

Hell, I don’t even know where Moorhead is.

I have a three minute commute, and I still use Google Maps.

When I look out, I am disoriented by the terrain — or lack thereof. I’ve been struggling with the right words to describe this place, because I want to say it’s nothingness, but it’s far from being nothing. This is big land, wide and fertile, with its own story, one that also contains a bloody plight and the displacement of First Nation and Indigenous peoples. I question if I am one in a line of others, coming for affordable housing (the locals would not call the housing market “affordable,” but coming from Montana, I sure do).

Fargo reminds me a lot of Billings, as it’s an underdog town that is largely misunderstood. To the outsider — perhaps more familiar with the Coen Brother’s 1996 version of Fargo — it seems like a desolate place populated with eccentrics. Yet, Fargo feels like — and is — a large town. Actually, it’s three towns in one, with Fargo, West Fargo, and Moorhead mashed together. There’s also three colleges here, with a strong academic influence and youthful collegiate vibe in the community.

There’s a lack of glitz and glamor, but there’s a lot of fascinating things happening. In short, it’s hip here. But don’t tell anyone, as the woman in the post office in Willow Creek told me. Just kidding.

The ‘long’ of ‘Long Strange Trip’

The day I left Willow Creek was the day I said goodbye to my cat, Lua, a companion of 17 years. In so many ways, she knew it was time to say goodbye long before I realized it. That chapter of my life started two decades ago when I crested the ridge outside Billings and saw the city for what it was to become — my home, a place of grit and industry, challenge and opportunity.

Our last day together.

I would not be the writer I am today without the city of Billings. Nor would I know myself as well. I thought Montana would hold me forever, but no place has ever truly claimed me. I was born a daughter of the wind to Casper, Wyoming, and have been across the country so many times since then. I feel a past life in Boston, a soul’s calling in Seattle, a longing for the sea in Santa Cruz, and now I am learning the land of the Dakotas, sacred soil that has its own stories to tell.

Currently, Matt is preparing a burrow on the couch as the temperatures drop below zero. It’s strangely not as cold here as it is in Montana, which is in the grip of dangerously low temperatures, soaring below -20 in some places.

My father, well-intentioned and warm in his Tucson home, informed me that the real cold is coming. “The difference is, in Fargo, the cold stays,” he said. “Winter is here.”

“That’s what you do — you accept your fate,” Matt said of the frigid temperatures headed our way. “That’s the way it works here.”