Hello, Devils Lake. Did you miss me? Because I missed you! I missed you like a woman misses her good bra after wearing the sports one all day. I missed you like farmers miss sleep in October. I missed you like the Lutheran Church Ladies miss a fresh pot of coffee when someone dares to brew it without an egg!
In short — it’s good to be home. Now, officially, I “took a sabbatical” from this column. But if you picture me lounging on a beach with cucumbers over my eyes, you’re giving me far too much credit and also making me laugh until my mascara cracks.
My sabbatical involved zero hammocks and 100 percent chaos. Because while I stepped away from writing, I stepped directly into two jobs I cherish but test my almost 60 year old body – I’m the Chief Joyologist (also known as Activity Director) at the nursing home in Cooperstown, where I spend my days convincing grown adults that pumpkin bowling counts as exercise. I referee towel-folding rivalries, and dodge whipped cream during planned, epic food fights.
On top of that, I was traveling the Midwest in a food truck selling Monkey Balls, Monkey Wieners, and enough Monkey Slushes to hydrate a small nation. So no — it was not a sabbatical. It was more of a prairie-style boot camp with snack foods.
That husband of mine and I hit the road the first weekend of May and didn’t stop until late October. That man of mine and I hauled ourselves and our deep-fried dreams through three states, countless counties, raucous rodeos, county fairs, dance events, car shows, craft fairs and even threw anchor in some of the very, most questionable parking lots imaginable!
If it had electricity, we were there. If it didn’t have electricity, we prayed over the generator and still set up. Here are some of what I call, “Highlights of the Summer of Monkey Balls” (hold onto your stretchy pants) – The event where a gust of prairie wind blew through at precisely the wrong moment, sending an entire tray of fresh Monkey Balls rolling across the grass like they were escaping from prison. A toddler chased them like he’d just spotted treasure.
Honestly, he wasn’t wrong. It was funny to watch and there is no use crying over a little spilled Monkey Ball!
Then, there was the time I discovered there are exactly two kinds of people in this world – those who hear “Monkey Balls” and blush and those who yell “I LOVE THESE BALLS!” across a crowded fairground without a speck of shame. Bless them.
I was touched at the farm couple who drove 42 miles out of their way because someone at a gas station told them, “You haven’t lived until you’ve had a Monkey Wiener.” That’s the kind of word-of-mouth marketing you absolutely cannot buy.
Or, the weekend we went through so much Monkey Slush that my forearm became permanently shaped like I was scooping frozen lemonade. I think it’s my dominant limb now. Owie!
Oh! I taught myself how to juggle lemons, so there’s that!
It was joyful. It was exhausting. It was ridiculous. And it was holy in the way that only small-town summers can be — where the roads are dusty, the skies are big, and everyone is a stranger until they’re suddenly family.
But through it all, I missed writing to all of you. I missed sharing the weirdness, the wonder, the heartbreak, the hilarity, the things that make life out here what it is — raw and beautiful and occasionally sticky with butter and powdered sugar!
So the Blonde on the Prairie is back. My hair is still misbehaving, my cats still outnumber my common sense, and my stories are still equal parts “inspirational” and “is she okay?” I can’t wait to laugh with you again. Cry a little. Think a lot. And keep finding the humor in the holy and the holy in the humor.
Buckle up, Devils Lake. It’s going to be a fun ride.
