Fargo and the Lawn

I went to Fargo last weekend. Many people who read that may assume that “going to Fargo last weekend” was a forced occurrence, some situation where I drew the short string, but quite the contrary. I was elated. Fargo meant restaurants, Fargo meant seeing Fargo family, and Fargo meant something else. I hadn’t been anywhere else since October. I planned to go to Fargo once but ended up having a serious panic attack about food. What would I eat? How could I go on a road trip without eating wheat, corn, eggs, or anything processed? Usually, being unprepared for a road trip meant I felt awful when I came home, and with the Bell’s palsy burned in my brain, I backed out without much regret.

So, to ensure my departure for this trip, I self-motivated by repeating the phrase “I’m going to Fargo dammit!” and spent an entire day preparing salads and chopped veggies and precooked meals and a smoothie kit to last me the entire four-day weekend. I had two huge tote bags full of allergy-free concoctions, and I teetered between feeling like a delicate pansy and a junk-food warrior when my food nearly filled the backseat. Cans of coconut milk clanked, the smell of garlic permeated the tiny car, and I had enough Tupperware to preserve a horse. But not one chicken nugget nudged its tempting mystery meatiness through my good food fortress. For one road trip, at least, I conquered the beast.

My cousin, Laura Jeanie, accompanied me on the seven hour trek. Laura’s role in my life can best be summed up in three words: partner-in-crime. She was living in Washington D.C. last year when I was living in Missoula, Montana, and after a couple phone calls we both realized we had the same, uncharacteristic inclination…to move home. So we did, together, and now we both live a short dirt road away from each other in our respective parents’ basements. 

In any normal universe, I would be embarrassed to admit the living-with-parents thing, but because of the crazy oil boom out here everybody and their dog is living in their parents’ basements or finding some kind of living quarters to put on their parents’ land (my sister and her husband have a double-wide on the front lawn). The small town infrastructure of Western North Dakota hasn’t quite caught up with the pace of big oil, and a housing shortage may be a reality for quite some time.

Between Laura and I, we have covered the globe from Paris to Istanbul, Peru to Azerbaijan…but I wonder if either of us had ever been more excited than when we went to Fargo. On the way we blasted Dwight Yoakam acoustic, talked about all the possibilities in Fargo, and succumbed to a school-girl giddiness when we realized we were out of town. That’s when it hit us: we were reverting back to our childhood. Back to the days of isolation, where a two hour drive to the nearest mall rocked our world. To the days of idiotic self-entertainment, when no iGadget could touch our imaginary worlds. And to the days when the world was small, and Fargo had no Paris to be compared to.

I don’t mind reverting, although it does concern Laura. She says that the episodes of reversion are happening closer together now, and have become more intense. Probably so, but the garden can’t be reverted out of me. For now, that’s my primary concern.

When we got to Fargo, Laura and I decided we were not going to succumb to the city trips of our youth when we only hit up the big box stores and ate at generic restaurants. We were going to get to know Fargo. High hopes. Sure enough, we found ourselves distracted by the generic, and all we made time for was a stroll downtown, where Laura took a picture next to a painted buffalo. Not quite the culture we were looking for. We concluded that such a lofty goal required baby steps...and multiple trips. 

On the way home the giddy factor had been tamed substantially, but I was quite content to be returning to my muses, the kids and the garden. Laura dropped me off at my parents' house then drove on up to her parents' house and we unloaded our Fargo gains (and losses). I was busy cleaning empty Tupperwares when Mom asked me if I had checked out the back lawn yet. “Nooooo,” I said, curiously and excitingly, thinking Dad must have tilled up the garden space that I begged for.

She didn’t respond, she just gave me a look that said “I can’t believe you got your dad to do that” so I raced to the lawn and sure enough, a HUGE chunk had been converted to tilled up sod. If I had any concept for measurements, I would spew some numbers about the actual size of the new garden, but the best I’ve got is it was much HUGE-r than expected. The area had quite a bit of shade, and immediately I started picturing the layout of my cool-season plants. Spinach, collards, and kale, oh my!

Later Dad mentioned how I had to shovel all the sod chunks off before planting. Seemed easy enough. I took a shovel out there to play with it one day and “easy enough” soon turned into “this is going to take me weeks.” I started making plans in my head to do an hour a day, and if I didn’t get the plants in on time that’s just what happens this year. Next year will be better. A part of me genuinely believed, however, that it would be a lifer on my to-do list. 

One evening I stepped up to the sod again. I picked up a shovel just to see if perhaps the ground had been more wet the last time. Nope. It was the same old sod. Then, as I was standing there poking at the chunks like a kid who doesn’t want to eat her broccoli, I heard a voice. “Kind of a big project Kal,” Dad said. But before I could say “I know” he was digging in…with gusto. I watched as he tore through the sod like any seasoned farmer would and the garden bed began to emerge, as did my visions of the future. Spinach, collards, and kale…spinach, collards, and kale. I quickly started shoveling right along with him and wouldn’t you know it, Dad and I got all that sod off in just over an hour. As to be expected, an overwhelming task suddenly undaunted upon the arrival of company. 

Ironically, Dad ended up being my knight in lawn-destroying armor; however, he may have done himself a disservice. Good chance he'll get roped into more projects before this summer is all said and done with. Plus, I'll be needing a back-up gardener when I decide to head east for more get-to-know research on my new favorite destination, if I can squeeze more into my summer.

So much Fargo, so little time.