I thought if I could touch this place or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing..

As many of you know, last week my great grandma passed away. 102 years old--what a life she lived! With the event of her passing, it brought back family members I hadn't seen in some time. And it brought us all back home.. to the farm, to good old Roseglen--the tiny little dot on the map that is now merely a post office and a bar. To where I grew up, to the "house that built me".


Lucas, our crazy cousin Steven, & I

Steven & the girls!


It's amazing how much a "place" can shape who you are and who you become. I haven't always been a hair stylist, a Weight Watcher's leader, a writer, a great cook, a mom. I once was a girl who spent summers with skinned knees, climbing trees, riding horse, playing basketball in the hay loft, drawing pictures in the dirt inside the rims on the tractor tires, staying outside from dawn until dark. Who spent countless hours next to her grandpa in a tractor. Who grew up watching her grandmas carefully kneed bread dough and roll out pie crusts and lefse until one day at a very young age I was "finally old enough" to be taught to do the same.


"That girl" all grown up, zip lining through the barn on the hay chute!



Winters were spent hollowing out the biggest snow pile we could find, sledding at the coulee, and hours of "working on the snowmobiles" in the barn. Spring meant lots of tractor time with Grandpa--the Steiger had a small space next to the seat that was just big enough for me to sit and I was fully convinced it was designed that way for that very purpose. The highlights of my summer were vacation bible school (all those games of Red Rover and singing with Grandma's guitar) and the few times we were lucky enough to get to go to the Makoti swimming pool. And of course Saturday nights meant roller skating at the hall and Sundays meant church. And with that came fall.. or harvest, rather. I can't put in to words what harvest is to me and it wouldn't matter anyway--only a fellow farm kid would ever understand why the sight of a wheat field tugs at my heart.

I once was a girl who didn't know of Starbucks. Folgers out of tiny little cups and Grandma's homemade donuts did the trick. I once was a girl who didn't own a single pair of designer jeans. Hell, back then naked in a mud puddle was far more in fashion. I once was a girl who didn't own an iPod. With Grandma's guitar and a family that sings, not only did we listen to music but we made it too. I once was a girl who didn't own a MacBook or an iPhone. I didn't facebook or blog or text. Not only did we actually pick up the phone to make calls but we'd take the time to go and visit those we loved and missed.

Hay loft basketball

Showing the younger generation how its done..

..and showing themselves they can still do it!



"I once was a girl"..

No, I'm still her. And I'm more thankful for that now than I have ever been. Now that Grandpa David and great Grandma Marjorie are gone and we have their legacy to pass on. Now that I have children of my own who I want to grow up to look back on memories like these rather than memories of "things"..who I want to instill with values much like my own. Who I will teach to kneed bread and roll out lefse. Who I will show to look outside and see opportunity and adventure rather than boredom. I am so thankful to be able to raise them on a farm as I was. And as they grow, I will share this part of me with them in hopes that one day it will become a part of them too.. Roseglen. <3


He's well on his way to being "our little farmer"..

And of course our little diva



Until next time.. <3