A Friendly Push

by Amy | May 11, 2023 | She's Not From Around Here

Just your average winter day

A few weeks ago I came across a car stuck in a bank of snow. We’d gotten snow earlier in the
week, but this was a warm, 35 ̊ day. Streets were clear, snow had even begun to melt on the
sidewalks. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, the wind was almost nonexistent. Obviously
this was the kind of day for a thick sweater, Converse sneakers, and no coat.

I took advantage of the unseasonably warm day by loading my car full of items to be donated at
the Dakota Boys and Girls Ranch Thrift Store and flattened cardboard boxes for recycling. The
emergency snow supplies we keep in our car through the winter – including a small shovel and
work gloves were buried beneath the pile. This was not the kind of day I expected to need those
things.

I loaded my sons into their car seats and set off. At the top of the 6th St hill, near Jim Hill Middle
School, I saw the car in the snow.

I slowed to see if someone had already stopped to help and noticed the car was surrounded by
several teenage girls – most wearing maroon Minot High hoodies. Another woman was there
helping – maybe one of the girls’ mothers, I wasn’t sure. I pulled over and told the boys I was
going to get out to see if I could help. They were happy in their seats, singing along to the
Veggie Tales CD my husband got when he was a teenager – probably the age of the girls
standing in the snow now. Life seems to change so quickly.

The car was at an angle in a front yard, the front wheels stuck in the snow. “Hi, there. Do you
need help, or do you have it covered?” I asked.

The woman had her phone to her ear, but answered me anyway, “I’m just trying to call someone
to bring a shovel. Then I think we’ll be okay.”

“Oh, I’ve got a shovel we can use. Let me grab it.”

We walked together to my car where I opened the hatch and narrowly avoided an avalanche of
donation bins and cardboard while I wrenched the shovel and gloves from under the stack. After
confirming the boys were still okay, I went with the woman to the car.

The girls had obviously been trying to get out for a while. Friction from spinning the wheels in
failed attempts at dislodging the car had turned the snow into wells of ice. I passed off the
shovel and gloves, then went back to my car to pass out snacks. After a few minutes I returned
to the other car to help push – with no success.

“If we had some cardboard or something we could slide under the wheels maybe that would
help,” the woman said.

“I’ve got that, too!” I told her. Moments later I was back with several options. I may not wear a
coat, but I am prepared.

By this time, my kids were truly restless. I left the shovel and gloves and told the group I was
going to run a couple quick errands and come back. Fifteen minutes later, my hatch was
empty – but their car was still stuck. Now, another truck had stopped with a chain to tow them
out.

Best intentions

I got out to collect my things. “Thank you so much. I know we didn’t get it out, but thanks for
trying,” one of the girls said.

“It’s no problem,” I told her. “Who hasn’t been on the receiving end of a friendly push at least
once in their life?”

As I drove home to the soundtrack of Larry the Cucumber’s Silly Songs, I thought about how
true that statement was. I’ve been stuck, unable to get my car up the 3rd Street hill. I’ve hit a
patch of ice on a curve and bounced off a curb. Once I even got stuck in a pile of snow on Main
Street from the snow plow.

It was dark by the time I came out of Margie’s to find my car immobile. In less than three
minutes, two men walking past stopped and pushed me out. When I voiced my thanks, they told
me much the same thing I told the girls: pushing each other out of the snow is part of what we
do here.

No, I wasn’t the hero who pushed the car out. But I keep thinking about that day. Isn’t it lovely to
be in a position to push instead of needing the push? Isn’t it lovely to live in a town where it’s
safe to need help and safe to stop and offer it? Isn’t it lovely to live in a place where looking out
for each other is the norm?

The arrival of spring is a joy – but a special comradery is forged in winter. Without the adversity of
winter, the Magic City would lack this sort of deep magic that only takes root in the snow.

To connect with me further join me on Instagram @amy_allender or on Facebook @amyallenderblog.

Talk Like A Local | The (Un)official Dictionary to Hot Dish Land

by Amy | May 11, 2023 | She's Not From Around Here

Local midwest vocabulary

When you move to a new place it’s common to feel like an outsider. Obviously, you expect it to take some time to find your stride and your people – but that stage of relocation is never fun.

I’ve never felt so foreign in a place than when I moved to Minot. Things are different here. From the weather to the shockingly low driving age – life can seem alien to a new transplant. Even the words used in casual conversation can seem strange.

Today, let’s decode ten common words and phrases you’ll hear around Hot Dish Territory. Master these, and you’ll be on your way to talking like a local.

The wind: To everyone else wind is simply the movement of air across a landscape. In Minot, wind is everything. The wind will dictate if a day is pleasant or uncomfortable, what you wear, and sometimes even your mood. The wind is always a safe small talk topic. If you don’t know what to say, comment on the wind. And don’t forget everyone’s favorite windism, “It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the wind.”

Oh for…: Pronounced, “Ō fer.” This mild interjection precedes a sentiment – especially sadness and glee –when responding to news that evokes a strong response. For example, you may say, “Oh, for sad,” when learning that a friend will need to attend a funeral. If a friend tells you they’ll be going to Arizona for a week in February you may say, “Oh, for fun!”

I’ve found that saying “Oh, for sad” and “Oh, for fun” are the primary uses. However, one may also say “Oh, for gross,” “Oh, for dumb,” or another adjective as conversation deems necessary.

The Cities: This always refers to Minneapolis and St. Paul. If someone tells you they are going to the cities, it is always appropriate to respond with, “Oh, for fun!”

The Flood: In reference to the devastating flood of 2011. This has now become a mark of time used by locals. For instance,

Did you move here before the flood?

Was your house flooded? (When discussing your home with a new friend.)

Was that after the flood?

Oh, I s’pose: Use this phrase to express consent, agreement, resignation, approximation, or a general I-wash-my-hands-of-this attitude. For example,

Person A: Are you coming to the church potluck?

Person B: Oh, I s’pose.

Child: Can I have more lefse?

Parent: Oh, I s’pose.

Person A: We should really get a remote starter on the car.

Person B: Oh, I s’pose.

Lefse: To locals, lefse is a delicacy. To outsiders – like me – it’s a tortilla made of potatoes. The tortilla is then slathered with butter and sometimes sprinkled with sugar, before being rolled up like a taquito and eaten cold. It doesn’t taste bad, but it’s not nearly as delightful as locals will lead you to believe.

Don’t get me wrong – I love lefse. I love the process of making it and I love seeing my local friends light up when they talk about it. If you’re new here, do yourself a favor and get on board with lefse.

Hot Dish: To the rest of the world, this is a casserole. There are a lot of complicated systems around here to describe what separates a casserole from a hot dish. Something about cream of mushroom soup and if it includes ground beef. I’ve never been able to understand the barrier. When in doubt, just replace the word “casserole” with “hot dish.”

Bars: While this might describe an establishment that serves alcohol, more likely the speaker is referring to any cookie-type dessert baked in a pan and cut into squares. For instance, you may be asked to “Bring a plate of bars,” to a school function. Cookie bars, brownies, and especially scotcheroos all fit the bill.

Ope: A lesser version of oops. Used when an accident takes place or especially if you bump into someone. Example, “Ope, excuse me, I’m just gonna squeeze past you.”

Welp: Pronounced “whellllllp.” Used to signal the end of a visit or conversation. If someone slaps their knees and says “Welp…” you know it’s time to wrap up conversation and head toward the door where the goodbyes will continue for another 15 minutes or so.

Give it some time and soon, you’ll be using these words and phrases flawlessly. And remember – if you don’t know what to say, just talk about the wind.

To connect with me further join me on Instagram @amy_allender or on Facebook @amyallenderblog.

Hot Dish Airports

by Amy | May 11, 2023 | She's Not From Around Here

Airports are an alternate universe

Since moving to North Dakota I’ve had many moments that leave me thinking I must have stepped into an alternate universe. However, few compare to my experiences at North Dakotan airports.

Though locals may not bat an eye at the Hot Dish airport experience, to those of us who aren’t from around here, it’s really something else. Among out-of-state friends or family, I like to spin tales of NoDak airports late into the night. The tales are tall, and only slightly embellished. They’ve become some of my favorites, because in so many ways, the airport is a microcosm of life here.

On a summer night in 2012, I walked off an airplane into the old Minot International Airport for the very first time. Not only was this my first experience at the Minot airport – this was my first impression of Minot itself. This was the day I moved to Minot.

I’d left Shreveport, LA alone, early that day with a small backpack and a disgruntled cat as carry-on luggage. At the time, I thought I was well versed in the ways of small towns. Now, just imagine my surprise when I stepped into the airport to discover I could see the whole airport from where I stood.

My feet froze to the spot. I’d never seen anything like this. I didn’t know places like this actually existed. Without moving I could see all three gates – or was it four – each with a cluster of chairs in front of them. Through a pane of glass I could see the security checkpoint. I could even see baggage claim.

Where was I? Was this place for real?

Although my cat was starting to yowl in her duffle, I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo. This was a story I needed to tell.

To everyone else this was commonplace. This was home – or home-for-now. And now it would be my home too.

As time passed, I observed other things unique to North Dakotan airports. Like the snack bar’s menu – carefully spelled out with plastic letters to include Hot Dawg. That menu item stayed up for years – until the airport was demolished and the new airport opened.

Or the time someone dropped their keys in the gate area. An agent found them, then walked to the center of the room – in view of everyone traveling, from all gates. Without using an intercom – there was no need in a space so small – she held them up and loudly said, “Somebody dropped their keys. If these look like yours, I’ve got them up here at the desk.”

Moments later, a man walked up to claim them. The rest of us exhaled a collective sigh of relief. Mutters of, “Good thing she found those,” and “Lucky you found them before your flight,” filled the terminal.

Flying in Hot Dish Land

Take it from someone who isn’t from around here: This kind of thing doesn’t happen anywhere else.

Another time, I accidentally left my laptop near baggage claim. There’d been a hold up with our luggage, so I pulled my computer out to work for a while. Somehow it got left. As soon as my husband and I arrived home, I realized my mistake. He immediately returned to the airport, where he was greeted by a TSA agent, “Looking for a laptop?” he said.

He had put it aside and was watching the door for a panicked looking person to come and retrieve it. My husband thanked him and brought it home safe and sound. The whole ordeal took no more than 15 minutes.

The Hot Dish flying experience is all these intangibles and many others combined. It’s hearing slightly exaggerated “Ooo” sounds in casual conversation. It’s knowing there’s a good possibility you’ll see someone you know on your flight. It’s how the Bismarck airport leaves TV remotes out on end tables, so you can watch whatever you want while you wait to take off.

I love all of these things. I love how I seem to be the only one noticing them. Most of all, I love returning to Minot after a trip. As I approach the gate for my final connection, I can spot other Minotians from afar. There’s an aura in the cadence of friendly greetings, flannel, well-worn work boots, and mentions of the wind. It looks like home. It looks familiar and safe, and I’m so glad I get to be one of the few who name Minot as their final destination.

There’s really nothing like it.

To connect with me further join me on Instagram @amy_allender or on Facebook @amyallenderblog.

When You Can’t Control the Windchill, Take Control of Your Story | Changing Your Thought Patterns

by Amy | May 11, 2023 | She's Not From Around Here

Being a ‘realist’

I’m not an expert at many things. A lover of learning, I tend to soak up information and skills, without ever committing them to lifelong practice. This comes in handy because I know a little bit about a lot of bits. If I need to know more, I can usually find someone who is more expert than myself. 

Recently, however, I’ve been contemplating what my area of expertise is. After much thought, this is where I landed: I’m an expert at reshaping and reframing a narrative. 

Let me explain. 

Naturally, I’m pessimistic. Or maybe I should say, pessimism was my normal, natural response to life’s circumstances throughout most of my life. Like any good pessimist, I’ve never considered myself a pessimist. Instead, I insisted I was a “realist.” To me, optimism was foolish; a fantasy unlikely to come to fruition, ready to lead to disappointment. Deep inside, I wanted to believe the good, to be hopeful, but the negativity always won out. I thought if I assumed the worst, anything better would be a pleasant surprise. 

After nearly 30 years of living with that mentality, I discovered the painful bits of life are just as painful—even if you tried to brace yourself for them. Disappointment still stings, even when you’ve convinced yourself it’s coming. Eventually, my unhealthy thought patterns and lack of emotional intelligence took a toll. I found myself facing devastating anxiety and depressive disorders. 

I came to an ultimatum: find a way to fix what was going on in my thought life—or succumb to a life of sadness, maybe even suicide. 

That was nearly seven years ago. Since then, I’ve worked really hard to shift my normal, natural pattern of thinking from assume-the-bad-negative, to honestly-positive. I’ve created a new “normal” in my mind. This way of thinking is just as realistic—if not more so—than my old “realist” habits. 

Changing to ‘hopeful’

I learned that something positive and hopeful can be just as honest as something negative—even when examining the same circumstance. I learned that each of us has the right and authority to shape the narrative of our days. We get to decide what we will believe about our day when we recount it to others, and when we crawl into bed at night. 

I do many things, but this is my area of expertise. My ability to reshape instinctually-negative narratives into something truthful, and positive is something in which I’ve achieved expert-level status. 

Since beginning to write “She’s Not from Around Here,” I’ve gotten many, many messages sharing appreciation for my pleasant perspective on a place that many see through an inherently unpleasant lens. This reminds me, in a world that is often dark and confusing, uplifting words spoken with honesty are a balm. We are all drawn to hope. 

While I appreciate the gratitude and compliments, I don’t want to take too much credit. I think this is a knack we can all develop with a little practice. We all have the ability to control our story, even if we can’t control the windchill. 

Heading into winter—perhaps the hardest time to call North Dakota home, especially if you aren’t from around here—is the perfect time to start honing your own ability to reshape a narrative. To get you started, I’ll reframe a couple common winterisms for you. 

“North Dakota winters are miserable.”  

Reframe it, and you’ve got something like, “Everyone knows insanely cold temperatures are uncomfortable, but our community works hard to provide fun, and often free things to do that only happen during the cold months.” 

“Winters last forever up here.” 

 That becomes, “Winter is a hard season, but spring, summer, and fall in North Dakota are absolutely stunning.” 

“My kids are going crazy from being cooped up inside.” 

 Rewrite that narrative and you’ve got, “My kids’ energy encourages us to get outside and play, or attend events even when it’s cold and I’d be tempted to stay home.” 

You’ve got the power over the story you tell. With practice—whether you’ve lived here your whole life, or this will be your first winter—you can weave an honest narrative with a positive spin. Positivity won’t change the windchill, but it will help you get through the cold, dark months with your hope, and mind intact. 

To connect with me, see how I spend my days in Minot, or get a little more positivity for your day, find me on Instagram @amy_allender or on Facebook @amyallenderblog