“No sane person would choose to leave Florida to live in North Dakota.”
I read that quote in a news article a couple weeks ago. When my eyes ran across the words, I nearly spit out my coffee, choking back a laugh.
The next day, friends came over for taco night and I told them about the quote. We all had a good laugh. It’s funny because it’s unbelievable that a Florida state representative would have the audacity to say something so negative about another state. It’s funny because we are all aware of North Dakota’s reputation for being a frigid wasteland. It’s funny because we all know the truth, the secret: life in North Dakota is amazing.
Nearly everyone at taco night has moved to North Dakota from out of state. Everyone had chosen of their own volition to come here. To be fair, my husband and I originally came on military orders, but we requested to come back. Everyone has chosen to stay.
Since then, I’ve said those words, originally spoken in response to a politically charged issue, many times. It’s become my favorite sarcastic saying, though usually I shorten it to, “No sane person would willingly live in North Dakota.”
I can’t get these words out of my head. I can’t seem to wrap my mind around the fact that so many people find North Dakota so easy to despise. To a person who never tires of telling others about the abundantly lovely life to be found in the “Legendary” state, this quote is both haunting and hilarious.
If I had to make a wager, I’d bet the man quoted in the article has never been here.
North Dakota instantly conjures up images of snow and wind, but there are also lush patches of berries to pick, perfect summers, and a closeness of community that is hard to find elsewhere.” (Photo: Amy Allender/The Dakotan
What is sane, really?
Sometimes it can be so easy to perpetuate negativity. Living in North Dakota often reminds me of this; seeing this quote from the news reminds me of this. Drawing conclusions based on stereotypes, or assumptions comes naturally, quickly, even instinctively. Agreeing with a common negative opinion is often more comfortable than being contrary with an edifying, uplifting, or positive point of view.
My goal is not to convince Floridians to move to North Dakota. I don’t mean to throw shade at the representative who thinks it would be crazy to move here, He loves his state, and that’s great.
No, my words are for us—the Dakotans. Whether by force, choice, or birth, we all find ourselves living in a place others find easy to belittle and use as the butt of a joke.
I want us to remember there is good everywhere. I want us to be people who speak kindly of where we live, taking pride in our place in this beautiful country. I want us to be people who express negativity with grace and seek out things that are praiseworthy—here and everywhere.
Let’s be curious people, willing to understand what others find hard to like, ready to ease that burden, and encourage folks who transplant to Hot Dish Land. Let’s be ready to understand what others find endearing, and enjoyable—willing to let the contentment, or excitement of others soften the places we may be harboring negativity. Let’s laugh together because we are the insane ones, thriving and finding plenty of fun in a place outsiders claim has “nothing to do.”
“No sane person would willingly live in North Dakota.”
Yet, here we are. It’s funny because it isn’t true.
We’re not crazy. We just know the truth.
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
“I see you here a lot,” said the man who held the door for me as we simultaneously left the library.
“Yeah,” I replied, while shoving my now-empty coffee mug into my bag. “I come here to work when my husband is home with our kids. I’m close enough that I can be home in about five minutes, if I hurry—but far enough away I’m not distracted by ongoing requests for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
We both laughed. It was the kind of laugh reserved for lighthearted conversations with strangers; airy and polite, but not fully committed. This man and I are both regulars at the library. This summer, I’ve spent many days perched at a table in the mezzanine, using it as an office of sorts. Looking down through the plexiglass partition, I’ve gotten to know the other “regulars,” by routine, if not by name.
There is the mom and two sons who come to do the monthly scavenger hunt; the man who saunters in to read the Wall Street Journal; the teenage boys who fancy themselves chess aficionados, but usually end up watching YouTube instead of finishing a match; and the man who always chats with the reference librarian—the man who held the door for me on this hot afternoon.
I recognize all these regulars, and more. I know they recognize me, too. Over the summer we’ve all become passive pieces in the ambiance of one another’s lives; familiar faces in a weekly rhythm. Rarely does my path cross another library regular closely enough to exchange more than a polite wave or smile, but on this day it did.
I’ve become a regular at the library, observing comings and goings from my favorite spot in the mezzanine.
When our laughter tapered off, I turned to remove my bike from the rack. The man said, “Are you from Minot?”
“No, I’m not from around here. But we really love it here. You?” I replied. His voice held a hint of an accent, so I wasn’t surprised when he told me that he, too, was a transplant.
“I’ve been here ten years,” he said. “Minot is okay. It’s quiet, the people are nice. There’s just not much to do.”
Obviously, he didn’t realize he was talking to Minot’s biggest advocate and ally. When I told him I thought Minot has plenty to do—and the activities are more accessible and affordable than anywhere else we’ve lived—he said, “Just give it time. You’ll see.”
When he said those words, I knew this would be a conversation I’d remember. A conversation I’d write about.
“You’ll see.”
It dawned on me then, that a person will see what they want to see. Will they see a place with “nothing to do” because it lacks attractions of national acclaim? Or will they see a place bursting with quiet possibility?
In turn, what you see will inform what you encourage others to see. Will you spur others on to see something good, and full of potential? Something ready to foster contentment, if given the chance? Or will you inspire others to see a void breeding ground for discontentment.
I’ll never “see” this as a place with nothing to do, and nothing to offer. That’s not the version of North Dakota I want to see, it’s not the kind of place I want you to see. That’s not the kind of place I want to live. I’ll choose to see something different.
I’ll choose to see a place with plenty to do. I’ll choose to see a community that works doggedly hard to be welcoming and enjoyable for individuals who have had little choice in moving here. I’ll choose to see the good ideas, the kindness, the quirks, and the opportunities to soak up experiences in small settings. I’ll do my best to help others see those things, too.
Don’t set your sights on what isn’t here, but all of the good things that are.
With a wide grin, I told my new friend at the library that I’d lived in Minot nearly as long as he had, and I’ve never been left bored. I asked if he’d been to summer theater? Arts in the City? Eaten outside on a patio? Traveled to Stanley for Whirl-a-Whip? Walked Denbigh Forest? Gone to the pool? Stayed up late enough for an outdoor movie?
No. He hadn’t even heard of most of the things I mentioned.
Friends, we are on the brink of a new season. As we approach the slippery slope to winter, let’s be mindful of what we see. Let’s see several more weeks of summer, splash pads, pool nights, and park walks. Let’s see autumn goodness on the horizon, ready to meet us with pumpkins, and corn mazes, and the return of the Hostfest.
You’re in a good place. You’re in a good community. You’ll see.
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.
We got more snow than I expected. When I wrote last week’s column the blizzard was impending with predictions hinting at the possibility of 30” of snow. However, with my vast meteorological experience (okay, I have none), I made my own prediction: Minot would get far less snow than expected and it would melt in a week or so.
We all know who made the more accurate forecast. (Hint — it was the National Weather Service.)
So here we are — sitting under four feet of snow.
This storm has taken a lot of us by surprise. At least, it has provoked a wide gamut of emotions. Personally, I have loved playing outside with my boys in the relatively warm weather under the even warmer spring sun. It’s an incredible gift to enjoy the snow without the sun going down at 4 p.m. Others, however are grumpy and disgruntled. That’s understandable, too.
No matter how you feel — happy, shocked, angry, grief-stricken, jaded, or anything in between — I think we can all agree that this crisis has revealed an unlikely hero from among our ranks: The City of Minot social media pages.
You are either nodding in vigorous agreement or have no idea what I’m talking about.
Not the hero we deserve, but the one we needed
While local government updates could be dull intel about snow routes, or cranky reminders to give plows space — the City of Minot is providing us all with information and the healthy dose of humor we all need right now. Their posts are so entertaining, I find myself checking their feed multiple times a day. When my house goes silent during nap time, I will sip a hot cup of coffee and giggle as I take in the wit and sass seeping from their posts.
It’s familial. It’s cozy. It’s funny and conversational and promotes a sense of “we’re-all-in-this-together-ness.” While reading, it’s easy to forget this is the official city government page. I forget these notices are speaking to our city’s population of 50,000(ish). Instead, it seems like getting reminders from the sharp-witted class president at a small, tight-knit high school.
I’ve lived a lot of places and I’ll assure you — the majority of America does not delight in reading posts from their city government. To be sure, I went back and read posts all the places I’ve lived (eight cities). None of them does what Minot is doing. I even looked at other Hot Dish Territory pages — and I’m sorry, but they are a yawn fest.
The City of Minot’s social media posts have created a bond among us. It has emerged as the voice of our generation. The fact that so many people I know look forward to city updates, truly demonstrates that Minot is indeed magical. There’s nowhere else quite like it.
[Photo: Amy Allender]
To further illustrate my point, here are a few excerpts from posts released by the under-acknowledged hero of our spring blizzard.
“First responders still are having a delayed response due to *gestures at everything* but they’re doing everything they can and blades will dispatch to clear the way when required.” April 13, 2022
“Crews have managed to clear some space downtown…However it’s not really “park-able”. But you know what is? Those parking structures (save the boos for after the snow melts, mkay?)” April 15, 2022
“Due to a minor mental breakdown we’re a little slow responding to your DMs. We’ll get to those as soon as we can muster up the courage to climb that mountain.” April 16, 2022
“Roads are narrow, like all over…Two lanes can turn to 1.5 right quick so try not to create your own little mini lane along those dotted lines. Think of the road like those jeans you loved from high school. (We all have them) it doesn’t matter how hard you suck it in, you won’t fit. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can move on without tears. Just slow down/stop and merge into the open lane.” April 18, 2022
Now, let’s all raise a glass to the voice of camaraderie behind The City of Minot socials. You are as inspiring as Churchill, as informative as the Myth Busters, as comforting as fresh lefse, and as entertaining as Daryl’s Racing Pigs. Thank you for being the unsung hero of the blizzard we’ll never forget.
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.
“Mom, why is winter taking so long?” My four-year-old has asked me this question exactly every day for a week straight. When he says it, the phrase is drawn out. It carries that tone of voice only a genuine child can produce when talking to their parents:
Mo—ommm. My name is drawn out and nasal. This word alone indicates a complaint will surface next.
Why is winter takinnnggg soooooo long? The tone here is the vocal equivalent of feet kicking at the floor. It’s the sound of dissatisfaction and unrest.
Though most of us don’t intone these exact words, aren’t we all wondering the same thing? By March the snow is definitely still here — but we are all ready for spring. Especially those of us who aren’t from around here.
The days are rapidly growing longer. For months we’ve been waking up in the dark, starting the day in the dark, and coming home in (you guessed it) the dark. Now, the sky is light in the morning. We are already discussing adding the extra black out curtains to our son’s rooms. After being plunged into frigid blackness for so long, who cares if it’s only 15 ̊ as we leave the house for church on Sunday? The sun is shining. The high is 30 ̊. And winter is taking so long.
Forget the coat, gloves, and hat. We are living in a spring mentality now.
A few days ago my son had some constructive ideas after his daily inquiry of how much longer winter would last.
Him: Can we make a countdown to when winter will be over?
Me: Hmmmmm. Honey, that’s tricky. We don’t ever really know when winter will be over around here. It could be a while yet. [Mentally remembering May snow storms.]
Him: Can it be Christmas again?
Me: Nope. Not until next winter. [Mentally noting that winter really is more fun around Christmastime.]
Him: Can we get out the spring box?
Me: Oh, I s’pose.
The spring box is a plastic bin of easter and spring decor. There’s a “fall box” and “Christmas boxes” too.
I lugged the spring box up from the basement and opened the lid. I looked inside at the bunnies and flowers, then out the window at the snowman we built over a month ago — still frozen in the front yard. It all seemed so incongruous.
Next, I looked at the calendar to confirm the Lent season has really started. Easter is only a month away. According to the calendar, bunnies, and chicks are very appropriate decor right now.
We put away snowflakes that have been hanging above the cabinets since Christmas and frosty greenery from vases. Jovial plastic eggs were placed in candy dishes. Ceramic bunnies gifted from grandparents in the 90s took up residence on the mantel.
When we finished my son said, “Is that it?”
“For now, I’m afraid so.”
What Season is It?
Later the temperature climbed to a sunny 35 ̊ — with no wind. We left our bunnies and eggs inside, donned light jackets and went out to play. The sun had melted ice and snow, leaving puddles for splashing. I put sunglasses on and sat on the stoop blowing bubbles for my boys to pop.
It was a perfect spring day.
Except it was only 35 ̊. Except when they weren’t popping bubbles, they were digging holes in mounds of snow next to the sidewalk. Except it’s only the beginning of March, and we still have plenty of snow days, wind chill warnings, and general winter ahead of us.
This is March in Minot. As things thaw, things get weird. We’ve all lost our sense of season, temperature and reason. Before March is over, I’ll see men wearing shorts as they walk into Menards. Before April is over, I’ll wear a tank top on a 60 ̊ day. Before winter is over we will all wonder at some point, Why is winter taking so long?
Although it is long, winter around here is faithful. Faithful to turn into spring. Faithful to give way to those endless summer days that inevitably make the winter worth every icy shuffle and every chapped lip. The summers really are perfect up here. That’s what I tell everyone who asks how I cope with a winter that never seems to end. “The summer is always worth the wait,” I tell them. And it always is.
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.
We could see the glimmer of sunshine on water before we heard the splashing or smelled the sunscreen. My husband, Derek, and I pedaled our tandem bicycle up to the bleachers near the pool and climbed off.
On the other side of the chain link fence teenage boys were lined up at the diving boards. One jumped and twisted as he fell into the water.
“Eight!” Another boy called out through a megaphone. This one clad in uniform-red swim trunks, sitting on the lifeguard’s perch.
Splash. Another dive.
“Six!”
The next boy prepared to jump.
“Wait,” called the lifeguard. “You can’t go until he’s out of the water.”
A beat of silence passed while the previous diver climbed the ladder. The lifeguard whipped his Zac-Efron-in High-School-Musical-esque hair from his eyes. “Okay, now go.”
This time, an elaborate front flip, then…splash.
From the megaphone, “Ten! Okay, from now on a front flip is the minimum requirement.”
By this time Derek and I were rounding the corner toward the entrance. Laughter from the diving boards faded from earshot as we got in line to pay admission.
Derek’s parents were in town and offered to babysit so we could go on a date. And this is how we chose to spend our evening: kid-free at the community pool. To be fair, we love going to the pool with our children.
But there is something special about being able to swim in the deep water, sit in the sun, go down the big slide—all at our own pace, without being constantly vigilant of a wandering 20-month-old.
In line we ran into a friend we hadn’t seen in a couple of months. A few minutes later we spotted our neighbors, the whole family, playing across the pool. On my way to the new slide, I ran into a family from church.
While I waited for my turn on the slide, I looked down on the full scope of Wednesday evening at Roosevelt Park Pool. The noise of rushing water, voices, shrill squeals from children, and music were muffled from distance. It all looked so calm.
In that moment, looking down at the people at the pool, I had a moment of overcoming sentimentality. Sometimes this happens when I’m observing our town. Sometimes the goodness just strikes me, and I can only do my best to breathe it in, memorize it, proverbially encapsulate it—so I can take the memory out later and reflect on it again and again.
From the top of the slide, I saw another element, another piece of what makes life in Hot Dish Land so special. And it was right there at the public pool.
Community.
More than anywhere else I’ve lived, this place is a community. And the pool is a perfect illustration.
Community at the pool
Where I come from, lots of people have pools. The summer is longer, usually hotter, and always more humid. If you don’t have a pool of your own, chances are you are friends with someone who does. Where I come from, the public pool isn’t widely used. People stay to themselves.
Here, it’s different. Having a pool is uncommon. If you want to go swimming, you go to the community pool. It’s what everyone does. Everyone is there—from littles in swim diapers, to sun-spotted grandparents. There are families, singles, and couples. We almost always bump into people we know. And if you go regularly, you’ll probably end up making a friend.
North Dakota is made up of small towns and communities. It’s unlike anywhere I’ve ever been, in that there is this constant “coming together” of residents. Whether that’s coming together for a fundraising dinner, a special event, or just coming together at the public pool—togetherness is prevalent.
It happens in the summer when outdoor public spaces are in their full splendor. It happens in the dead of winter when we gather for the Christmas Tree Lighting, mornings at the Fun Zone, and spaghetti dinners. I’ve never been in a place where things seem less divided; where people see others as just that — people.
Here, it’s usually not about status, or income, politics, or demographics. It’s about community.
No place is perfect. But I like what I see here, from a bird’s eye view at the community pool.
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.
“I just know by the time we find a good place, the boys are going to be cranky and it’s going to be a disaster.” This was my lament last Sunday, as I wove our car up and down country roads, scanning the horizon for highlighter-yellow fields. I grumbled something inaudible as I realized I’d led us down another useless road.
“The boys are fine. Right now, you’re the only one who seems fussy,” my husband said. As usual, he was right. Sometimes I tend to live ten paces into an imagined future—dreading things that haven’t happened, laying too much weight on possibilities that may never come to pass. In a clinical setting, I think this is called “projecting.” I took a breath and tilted the rearview mirror down, in order to see the back seat.
My kids were riding happily, making each other laugh with silly faces. Things were fine.
We were driving, at my insistence to a canola field, seeking an updated family photo.
When Hot Dish Land moves into the last phase of summer, some breathtaking things take place. The countryside becomes a place for slow-motion fireworks as crops come into bloom. Canola fields dazzle the horizon with a supernatural yellow glow. The green of soy beans saturates the earth until it’s so vibrant and heavy it seems like the color could drip. If you’re lucky, you’ll stumble across the cool purple and blue of a flax field. Then, of course just when you may begin to mourn the end of summer; just as the nights grow cooler and the darkness closes in noticeably earlier—there are the sunflowers.
Most of the world may take these wonders for granted. Maybe if you’ve been born and raised alongside the miracle of agriculture these things are no more startling than a pigeon near railroad tracks. Maybe if you aren’t from around here, you see all this open space as simply “farmland.” Maybe, no matter where you’re from you just haven’t stopped to think twice about it—except when your social media feeds begin to fill up with advertisements for sunflower photo sessions.
To me, this ever-changing landscape that begins with vast amounts of brown dirt, seeds, and nothingness, is breathtaking. It’s worthy of marvel. I’ve gotten used to the dialect, the affinity for Dairy Queen, even the windchill has become somewhat routine. I moved to Minot for the first time ten years ago, and I still struggle to be casual about the seemingly infinite acres of crops that surround our town.
I can’t drive by without wondering about the machines that make this all possible. Then I think about the fact that there are people out there who know how to operate those machines, and maintain them. There are people who know how much seed to buy, how to nurture it, how to ensure good growth. They know when to harvest, and where to take their goods. After that, there are people who know how to turn these plants into all kinds of products with all kinds of uses that keep our world going, in all kinds of ways. I wonder about the people, and their families; if this is a trade inherited like a priceless heirloom, or it’s simply the family business. When I see a tractor on Highway 83, I think of the people who have been injured, or lost someone they love while working the land.
North Dakota “Nothingness”
When people say there is “nothing” in North Dakota this is what they are referring to. The open land that has a reputation for being “nothing” is truly something spectacular. It’s something powerful, necessary, and utterly American. In this sea of supposed “nothingness” we are at the center of something extraordinary.
It’s beautiful. It’s calloused. It’s sacrifice; and like so many things worth really seeing, it’s easy to overlook. Like so many things, it comes and goes quickly—if you don’t stop and notice, it’ll be gone. If you spend too much time projecting, you’ll be living in winter before it arrives—and you’ll miss the beauty waiting to meet you along the way.
On Sunday we found a field near the road. We carefully walked down a mowed tractor path. The wind whipped my hair around, my littlest did get cranky, fruit snacks are in the photo. But we got it, a physical reminder of the awe this time of year stirs in me. A reminder to take in what is blooming right at this moment, not live in anticipation of what will—or won’t—happen next.
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.
During my years in North Dakota, I’ve become a student of Hot Dish language, culture, and traditions. I celebrate Syttende Mai, enthusiastically watch Lawrence Welk reruns, participate in Trash Christmas, and say things like “Oh, fer cute,” “Uffda,” and “Oh, I s’pose.” I pretend lefse is a delicacy and teach my children the art of a “Midwest Farewell.”
Even after seven years here, this place still holds some mystery to me. In my opinion, one of the most mysterious and elusive things about North Dakota culture is “The Lake.”
The Lake is where locals spend their summer. If your neighborhood is vacant on Saturday night, or the church pews are sparsely populated on Sunday morning, there’s a good chance The Lake is to blame.
As soon as the snow begins to melt stores fill up with “lake” merchandise. Coffee mugs, T-Shirts, and knick-knacks a-plenty all claim that “Lake life is the best life,” or “The Lake is calling.” I smile and listen while the born-and-raised Hot Dishers tell me of their plans to go to The Lake for the weekend, as if The Lake is a place we can simply look up on a map.
When a local refers to The Lake, there is a casual reverence in their voice. Obviously, this is someplace important, someplace you should know about, someplace you should want to go. It’s The Lake, after all.
I have many questions about The Lake, and very few answers. For starters where, exactly, is The Lake?
Where is “The Lake?”
My husband and I were raised a thirty-minute drive from the shores of Lake Michigan. To us, going to “the lake” meant going to Lake Michigan. People across the region flocked to the sandy shores to enjoy the cool water, hot sun, and popsicles from the concession stands. A day at the beach could require as little as a beach blanket, a towel, and a water bottle.
Here, The Lake is much more complicated. For starters, “The Lake” can mean many different things. A map of North Dakota will show you lots of lakes. Which one is The Lake? Which are open to the public? Where exactly can you access The Lake from once you arrive?
The locals all seem to have their own preferred lake. Sometimes I ask which lake they’re headed to, but doing so usually leaves me more confused when I’m given North Dakota directions:
“Oh, you know. It’s out by (insert town I’ve never heard of). Kind of by the (insert obscure landmark I’ve never heard of). You’ve gotta go past the old (insert another unknown landmark) to get there,” they say.
By this point in the conversation, I give up and wish them a happy trip.
Another thing that complicates Hot Dish laking is the amount of equipment The Lake requires.
I’ve attempted to go to The Lake with just a towel and blanket, only to discover I am sorely unprepared. As an outsider, it seems like a long list of stuff is needed to truly enjoy The Lake. You’ll need all the basic lake stuff — towels, bathing suits, floaties, sunscreen, etc. But you’ll also need a camper, boat, fishing gear, and a truck to haul it all out to The Lake. Oh, and don’t you dare forget bug spray. Who knew going to the lake could result in so many ticks?
All this only leads to more questions. Where do you keep all that stuff during the winter? Where do you park it at The Lake? Do you need to own a campsite? Do you leave all that stuff at a campsite all summer? In order to be a true North Dakotan, do you need to buy a camper?
Maybe someday I’ll fully understand The Lake. For now, I’m content to be baffled. I’m content to accept The Lake as one of those adorably local things that will never make sense to us transplants. That’s okay. Life is better with a bit of mystery in it.
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.
It’s time to dust off those sweaters. The Norsk Høstfest is nearly here.
What’s the Deal with the Høstfest?
It happened while my family was at Logger Fest over the weekend. I was standing to the side of the bouncy-house obstacle course, waiting for my son to come down the final slide, when I heard foreign speech behind me.
In another place I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But this is Minot, and visitors who speak another language are uncommon. (No, a southerner’s drawl or Canadian’s accentuated “oo’s” don’t count.) Without thinking, I glanced over my shoulder to see a middle-aged woman and young man deep in conversation. When I saw their fair hair, beautiful light eyes, and glowing skin, it occurred to me. They’re Scandinavian. The Høstfest is nearly here.
To someone who is not from around here, it may not seem like a big deal—but the history, traditions, and connections created from the Norsk Høstfest are deep and important to those who have spent their lives in Minot. I know many locals who have developed friendships with visitors and vendors from Norway, Denmark, and Sweden through their involvement with the festival. That moment in the park reminded me —- people really do come from all over to attend.
People around here get really jazzed about their Scandinavian heritage. And just like anything else, the more people who are enthusiastically all-in, the more exciting it looks to the rest of us. The Høstfest brings that enthusiasm front and center. It’s the time when locals give themselves over to their inner affinity for meatballs, Dala horses, and sweaters.
It’s the time when not-locals spend half our time wishing we were Scandinavian so we could fully understand what’s so special about trolls and lefse—and the other half wrinkling our foreheads trying to pronounce “rømmergrøt”, and wondering how an Oofda Taco differs from a regular taco.
The “official” games of the Høstfest can be puzzling to outsiders. However, I’m hopeful classics like “Knock the Fleas off the Black Plague Rat” and “Ring the Troll’s Antler,” will be at this year’s festival.
When we moved back to Minot in 2019, I was out of town for the festival, and the pandemic forced it into hiatus in 2020 and 2021. Like many others, I am anxious for its triumphant return next week.
The last time I was able to attend the festival was in 2015. At the time, we were on the brink of a military move, and I thought it would be the last Høstfest of my life. I spent time chatting with vendors and creating a “This American Life” style audio story to capture the experience. It’s one of my fondest memories. Elderly ladies coached my pronunciation while I ordered food, men reenacting a Viking battle let me try on their gear. Later, Geir Ness, the parfumier, told me how his mother inspired the signature scent in his line. He offered me a “purse-sized” bottle of the fragrance, Laila: the essence of Norway, and it’s the only perfume I’ve worn ever since. I learned about loom arts and sweater patterns, and when night came, I danced the polka to a band flanked with accordions.
The last time I attended the Norsk Høstfest was 2015, when a Viking reenactment participant offered to let me try on his gear. No question, this is a quirky event.
Special Human Connection
That day may not be the typical festival-goer experience—but it sure was great. I’m not anybody special—I just took a special interest in something that is really important to someone else. I learned a lot of things that day, but one thing stands out: Høstfest people are eager to share. They want you to understand the hype. They want you to see the fun, to experience the culture in a way that blesses you. They want to talk to you, hear your questions, and engage. And everyone is so gosh, darn nice. This kind of human connection is precious in a world often divided. Let’s not take it for granted.
I’ve been asked recently if I have tips for attending the Høstfest. I don’t have many, but I’ll share what I’ve got:
Try to attend. It really is a spectacle worth seeing. Yes, it can be pricy (see the following tips for saving on costs), but if you can go, you should.
If you are a military member or family, plan to go on Wednesday, September 28. Military admission is only $10, Kids under 12 are always $5.
If price is a major factor for you, consider volunteering. According to the Norsk Høstfest website, they are still in need of extra hands. Volunteers serve a four-hour shift, in exchange for free admission, food voucher, and merchandise discounts.
In my opinion, the food options are overwhelming—and I usually don’t know what they are. Chat with a local before going in to get their recommendations and have them decode the foreign words for you.
Talk to the vendors. The experience is so much sweeter if you spend time connecting.
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.
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