Oil, cows and George Strait, don'tcha know?

A sign as you enter my town says "Welcome to Medora: The edge of the west." The mentality in the area is definately midwestern, and geographically we're the great plains, but whatever. If the tourists will buy more Kewpie dolls in "the west" so let it be.

It's one of my biggest gripes about North Dakota, actually. We're always trying to pretend we're something we're not. Like a debate a few years back over dropping the "North" and just being "Dakota" because it would attract more tourists and sound less cold and remote. While I would prefer not to live in a state named after a Vegas prostitute, dropping the "North" does not change the fact that "North Dakota" IS cold and remote.

My town was founded in 1883 and named after a French Marquis' wife. Theodore Roosevelt came to the little town in 1886 to hunt a bison before the magnificent herds were gone. He became so enamored of the place that he bought land and set up life as a rancher. He is quoted as saying that if it were not for the time he spent in the Badlands of North Dakota that he would not have been president. (I can list the other 12 or so famous North Dakotans if anyone is interested.)

The winter population of Medora has been wavering around 100 for the 15 years my family has lived there. An older member of the community passes away and the population crashes to a paltry 99. Once a family of 7 moved in and the population boomed to a whopping 106.

Oil was big in the early 80's. The school district, rich with oil taxes, built an elegant K-8 gradeschool with oak lockers and plush carpets. Times were good then. All the ranchers could make it on their cattle business and horse trade alone. After the oil bust in the early 90's the economy fell. Virtually every farmer and rancher in the area has been forced to take a job in town at least part time. Usually with the tourist trade in the summer.

The county just north of me lost more people per capita than any other county in the nation in the 2000 census. Farming is a way of life, not a way to make a living. At least not in the crumbly clay of western North Dakota.

The little town is very closely knit and a tough community to crack. My parents and brothers and I are still "the new folks" despite the 15 years we've lived there. We came because my father works for the park service. Working for the government is not "cool" in western North Dakota and I grew up knowing I was different. I remember my best friend in 3rd grade ranting and raving in gym class one day about how bad Democrats were. I didn't know what a Democrat was, and I was pretty sure he didn't either. But whatever it was I was pretty sure I was one, and I thought that made me wierd.

Most everyone is German/Ukranian and family is very important to them. They get together with the cousins and make lefsa and knoephla on the weekends. They have round-ups in the fall and brandings in the spring. All able bodies members of the town go to help at the brandings. Initiation at these events, at least for 10 year olds, is to eat "rocky mountain oysters" freshly cut from the bull calves and grilled to perfection over a branding fire - lightly seasoned with flecks of dried cow manure, of course.

Entertainment on a Friday night in February? Driving and hour and a half in a blinding snowstorm on red dirt roads and old highway 10 to see a 5th-8th grade girls basketball game. The whole town turns out.

There are three bars and three churches in town. All six attended zealously.

For High School I drove 45 minutes to a conglomerate high school. There were 60 kids in my class. Red ropers, wranglers, cowboy hats, pickups with gun racks and shot guns in the parking lot, George Strait, Brooks and Dunn, and the ever present, ever burgeoning subculture of youth, rejecting it all for airwalks, cargo pants, and hiphop. I keep in touch with one friend from those days. When we talk our combined gossip has led us to approximate that over half of our class either have babies or are married. She just got married in September.

I go home now, and everyone still know my name. "The World Traveler" they call me, because I've left the state. I'm always embarassed. Many of them have never left the region. Montana or Minnesota perhaps. Canada, which is only 3 hours North, might as well be Figi for as many of them as have been there.

All I wanted to do when I was growing up was get the hell out of there. I hated them and their little dreams. All I want now is to live in a place as peaceful and as close and as simple as that little town. Will I go back? Probally not, not for good. But the pull of 100 +/- 5 people who welcome me home a hero grows stronger everyday.