My Own Little House on the Prairie

The five of us piled into the van before the sun came up, my grandpa hunched behind the wheel. We crested the mountain as the sun came up, the elevation wrapped us in cool air, despite the summer season.

We spent the rest of the day driving, miles of open space and nothing but highway in front of us.

Eventually, I peered out the back window of the van and saw a green billboard, “The Home of Laura Ingalls Wilder Next Exit.”

“Grandpa, can we go there?” I asked from the backseat of the maroon Econoline van. I don’t remember his response, or maybe he didn’t give me one. The interstate whirred by as we continued our family trip to Michigan. My parents, younger sister, and my grandpa—all packed into the van. This was the early 90s and my sister and I spent most of the trip lying down on the bench in the third row—no seat belt or booster seats in sight.

We made the drive from Wyoming to Michigan, and I’m sure that I passed some of the time reading, either the Babysitters Club or anything by Beverly Cleary, Goosebumps, or Little House on the Prairie

On the way back from Michigan to Wyoming, my grandpa took that exit—and we spent the day where Laura had once lived. I was able to walk the same places she had, and I imagine I felt like I was inside her books. 

I was 8 or 10 at the time, maybe 12. My elementary years all run together, with bits and pieces sticking out. I wish I could say I remember more specific things that happened that day in South Dakota. Did the air rustle through the prairie grass, reminding me of Laura and her beloved Jack the bulldog? Was it everything that I had imagined?

Every Christmas one of my favorite gifts in my stocking was a gift card to Barnes & Noble. My mom, sister, and I would drive the 90 miles to the nearest city where we could use our gift card. I searched the shelves for the newest James Patterson or Mary Higgins Clark. Then made my way to the historical fiction shelves. The well-worn red and black paperback, Number the Stars, a favorite on my bookshelf at home since the 4th grade. Annemarie and Ellen were two characters I often imagined myself as. Ellen’s dark hair made it seem more likely that I was her—except I’m not Jewish. I often wondered if I would have been as brave as Annemarie’s family, had I been in their shoes.

College was full of textbooks, course syllabuses, and homework. I know I read for fun, but I couldn’t tell you any of the books I read outside of the classroom. I left my beloved Number the Stars and Little House on the Prairie in my childhood bedroom to collect dust throughout my 20s. After college, I spent those years finding myself, sometimes between the pages of books, getting lost in them when I was too scared to admit to myself that my life wasn’t where I had hoped it would be. 

Near the end of my 20s, I met Rich. His farm on the prairie was nowhere near where I expected I would end up. Could I be as resilient as Laura and Ma? Even though I have the luxury of electricity and running water, it still takes some grit and a different mindset to live in the middle of nowhere. All those years ago when I convinced my grandpa to take me to Laura’s house in South Dakota, I never imagined I would find myself living on the prairie. But now I’m surrounded by it. 


“Mom, it’s a rattlesnake!” Rhett runs from the dirt pile to the back of the house where I’m watering the newly planted trees. 

I glance up from the tree, dropping the hose. I follow him to the edge of the yard that connects with one of the many fields we are surrounded by. The grasses sway back and forth, and I wait to hear the sound that upset him. Knots form in my own stomach, hoping it’s not a rattlesnake. Rich isn’t home, and I am not looking forward to having to deal with a big rattlesnake on my own. 

The hot dry air surrounds us. Then I hear what he heard. The many grasshoppers that have filled our fields, yards, and the grill of my car, move their legs in rhythm, almost making a rattling sound.

“It’s just a grasshopper, buddy, not a snake. But good job coming to find me.” I reassure him. “Let’s go inside and get a drink,” I say.

We walk past the bookshelf, stacked with books I’ve read, books I plan to read, and Laura and Annemarie are here too. I knew when I got married, I was changing my story, and I was ready to bring them with me—their years in my childhood bedroom over.

Whether it was living in apartments alone after college or motherhood—but I’ve mostly given up suspense novels. Number the Stars was my gateway to historical fiction, and my GoodReads shelf of “Read” books is dominated by that genre. Despite the sadness, I’m still drawn to their stories. I’ve read the Little House series a few times since childhood, and hope to pass them down to my own children (along with the twig I have from DeSmet—tourism dollars at it’s finest).

Reading and writing come in waves for me. My book club often asks me, “Have you been writing a lot?” And the answer always depends on if I’ve been reading a lot. I haven’t been able to manage both well at the same time. When I’m reading a lot, I’m hardly writing. When I find myself inspired to write my own story, I find it distracting to read someone else’s. 

Years ago when I was a high school counselor, I never picked up a pen or put my fingers to the keyboard to tell a story. My love of writing was pushed to the side, my new career taking all of my time and brain space. But motherhood and farm life has brought back that urge to tell a story. And I’m surrounded by stories—from the farm to being a mom, and usually a mix of the two.

Over the years I’ve traded post-it notes lists of books to read for GoodReads. And I’ve tossed the guilt of starting and not finishing a book. Because I’ve learned that when you know, you know—with books and love.

This essay was written as part of the “Reading Well, Writing Well: Building a Writer’s Toolbox” workshop through Exhale Creativity.

Welcome to My New Home!

Welcome to My New Home!

Hi, friends! Although as I’m writing this, only a couple people know I am planning to start a blog again … so I am likely only talking to my sister. Hey, sis!

I’ve always loved writing, but never really knew what to do with it. In college I imagined myself as the next Katie Couric. But given that I am fairly shy, I don’t know that a life in front of an audience would have worked for me.

Once I became a mom I stopped working and became a full-time stay-at-home-mom. I would sometimes feel the urge to write, but told myself that when my kids were older and I had more time, then I would write. Later, later, later is what I told myself. There was always a reason why I didn’t have time.

One day last fall the kids and I were at a Taco Bell eating lunch. We were waiting for the tires to get rotated on our vehicle, and the Taco Bell happened to be right across the street. Going out to eat with two kids is always an adventure, especially when you’re the only adult. This day didn’t prove to be any different. I was working up a sweat, partially from chasing Rhett and also from all the eyes on me, watching my every move. And his. I was then approached by an older woman who said to me, “You’re brave for being out in public with him.” She didn’t say it unkindly and I didn’t feel like she meant any harm with what she said. For the rest of the day I couldn’t get out of my head what she had said, and I had a stronger urge than ever before to write. Later that day I sat down at my computer and starting writing about that day. I worked on it for a week or so and then submitted it to Her View From Home. I didn’t tell anyone, not even my husband, that I had written anything, and especially that I had submitted it for publication. If I was going to be rejected, I wanted to sit in the rejection alone. One week later I heard back from Her View From Home and they gave me a yes! My first essay, “Why I Take My Wild Child Out in Public”  was published in December 2017.

That feeling of being published encouraged me to keep writing, even if it was only a few minutes a day, late at night or early in the morning. I am still trying to find time to write in the “cracks” of the day. It’s a work in progress and I assume it will be for awhile.

I don’t see my blog being a place where I share all the every day details of my life. I want it to be a place where I can continue to practice my writing, whether it’s about motherhood or being a farmer’s wife. Because of that, don’t expect to see posts from me every day, or even every week. I plan to be intentional about my writing and continue with what feels best to me: slow writing.

If you’re still reading this, I hope you’ll stick around and subscribe to my blog. And I hope that you’ll hear from me sooner than later!