5-1-5-0; Florida State is 5-0

Lord have mercy, what a week. 

So glad HostFest is over. Not that it was bad, it was just insanity.

Everything people told me was true, but it still blew my mind. I’d been told – repeatedly – that the HostFest crowd was all silver haired folks with walkers. Tons of them, people said.

Still, it’s one thing to be told about it and another to experience it. Holy cow, the gray hair! There were elderly folks everywhere. The whole exhibition halls were packed with people, and the little ladies outnumbered the little men about five to one. I really did get trampled as I tried to get a free cookie sample.

Folks were in from all over, including the Scandinavian countries. But there were zillions, I think, from Saskatchewan and Alberta. I think every second person I saw was from one of those two provinces.

Every day, I set up and took down the Hope Village booth. I had a free pass on the hotel shuttle, which worked awesome for the most part, although occasionally I got stuck wandering in the halls to kill time before the next bus.

One evening, I watched the Oak Ridge Boys on the free stage. It was kind of bizarre, just because that attorney I’d worked for had been their manager/financial guy/whatever since the 1800s or something like that. I mean, I’d fielded calls and emails from the guys, although I can’t for the life of me recall a single name.

But man, they crank out a good show. Low-key, but really well done. I think they played for 45 minutes before they took a slight breather to talk. It was fabulous.

Saturday was brutal. Before the Host Village booth fell into my lap last Thursday, I’d already signed up to work 10:30 to 3:30 at the Our Savior Lutheran Church’s salad booth. Then, as it was the last day, I scheduled myself to close down Hope Village’s booth so I could take the booth down.

I’ve gotten no sleep whatsoever this week. Too stressed (not in a bad way) about HostFest and things going all right with that. I’ve gotten up around 6 a.m. or before every day and just have had some wild dreams.

 

But Saturday went well, even if I did wake up early for no reason. I made it through and even got into the Dierks Bentley concert.

Man, THAT was weird. Let’s just say that the HostFest is NOT a “young country” crowd. At all. I was kind of surprised at the lineup, really. I mean, it seemed like an odd selection, and it just got weirder as the night progressed.

First, Bentley was not on the free stage. I wasn’t about to fork over money, but in the morning at the salad booth, someone offered a ticket and I said sure. I had absolutely no idea who he was and even had to ask his name right before the show.

He was very nice and a big concert go-er. He said he normally took a lot of photos and also recorded the shows. So that was kind of odd in a Seinfeld-y way, but, like on Seinfeld, something went wrong – he wound up forgetting his memory card so he couldn’t record. It was kinda funny.

It was a bizarre, bizarre show. This is young country, not the Oak Ridge Boys. Yet the crowd, even with a good number of younger kids, likely averaged well over 50. And those older folks sat in the front row seats, where, if my ticket was priced at $80, was a good chunk of change.

The operative word there is “sat.” At this uptempo show, they just sat. And some of the younger fans wanted to dance.

So at one point – and I only have one Dierks Bentley CD, so I don’t really know the songs – he motioned for someone to approach the stage, and he high-fived the buckle bunny.

Well, that encouraged a slew of kids to come down to the mosh-pit area for a couple of songs. After maybe the second one, Bentley said something about “I just want to get it on record that I didn’t ask these fans to come down here.” He made light of it, saying he didn’t mind, etc.

But I wondered if it was in the HostFest rules (I’ve heard they’re restrictive for artists) that, essentially, no one could stand up. And considering a couple of minutes later the police forced the fans to go back to their seats, I really think they just can’t do that.

It just must be so weird to be an artist and essentially not be able to get any reaction from fans. It was just so weird and I kept laughing at it. I just thought it was so funny.I felt bad for Bentley, though. I wondered if he, like me, had been told everything about the crowd but still found it unbelievable.

Fairly early on – after the cops busted up the fans – Bentley kicked the band off and went into acoustic mode, which I enjoyed. I have the first CD and he played “My Last Name,” which I at least knew. (And I wonder if he was aware that one of the announcer guys before the show referred to him as “Dierks Benedict.”)

While I wouldn’t in any time in the foreseeable future spring $80 for any concert I can think of, I would pay more for acoustic. I like that so much better. Screw the stadium, bring on Bluebird.

About a third of the way through the show, my ticket buyer went to the restroom, and happened to run into his father and borrowed a memory card from him. He came back with the card and said his father (who was likely in his 70s) deemed the show “terrible,” and left.

We, though, had a great time. About the time Ticket Buyer came back, Bentley had brought the band back out and kicked it up. As TB was fumbling with the camera settings, Bentley started playing up to the young rambunctious crowd – which happened to be seated in the section next to us.

Then Bentley got down off the stage, walked past the older folks, climbed the steps and walked over to the little buckle bunnies as they mobbed him. I am not sure how it’s possible to do that without missing a beat (literally) but he did fairly well, even turning over the mic to one of the girls. I mean, if they wanted to fondle him and didn’t, they weren’t trying. It was kind of funny. TB got some excellent shots, but I didn’t think to bring a camera.

Incidentally, Bentley got a haircut and looks much better. I like the CD I have, but I don’t find the man attractive.

One of the songs he did he talked about his father, who died earlier this year at the age of 88. I looked it up – Bentley’s 36. Holy cow.

During the beginning of the show, I kept texting Barry so I could get the FSU score updates. I’d had my laptop on while I was working the Hope Village booth but the show started around halftime. I got the score going in but it was WAY too stressful to not know what was going on. I kept checking the messages until FSU was officially 5 and 0. Thank God.

After the show (finale was “What Was I Thinking?”), I broke down the Hope Village booth, and as I was lugging everything out, one of the people from one of the nearby booths stopped me and said I had been very good. I asked what she meant and she said that while she couldn’t hear what I had been saying about Hope Village, she could tell I was sincere.

I was totally flattered by that, but it is true. I really enjoy what I am doing because I believe in it – we are working to get 500 families back into their homes. I can tell you, on a weekly basis, how many families are still living in FEMA trailers (1,086), how many homes we’ve worked on (over 300), and how many jobs we have pending (190).

We’ve had volunteer teams (185) from 25 states and four Canadian provinces. We also set up local volunteers with projects – I will put anyone to work.

And I am sincere about it. I’m definitely not faking it. I am in the right place and doing the right thing.

More on HostFest

First, it is not possible for me to have fingernails during football season. FSU is down 13-7 early against Clemson (we’re on a review for the TD; no PAT attempt yet) and I’ve bitten off everything I have.

14-7 now. The only consolation is those are the two first touchdowns the Noles have allowed in three-plus games, but it’s scary since it’s the first true test of the season.

I really wish I could get to a game this year, but it’s not going to happen. Flights from Minot to FSU land are about a grand. That’s not possible.

This week, I had my first unexpected bill. The flat tire came back. I don’t usually drive much but ran to the doctor on Monday and Tuesday, I think it was, I noticed it was low again.

So, rather than tell Mike the repair didn’t take, I filled it up enough to get to Walmart, which, sadly enough, is where I spend about four nights a week.

It’s within walking distance and after dinner, I tend to walk up there and back. Sometimes I buy something (Junior Mints or tea) but more often than not, I just wander around, use the bathroom (it’s got running water and underground pipes and everything!), drink out of the novelty that’s a water fountain and then walk back.

I dropped it off so they could fix the flat, but as it turned out, the hole was too close to the wall and I had to get a new one.

It’s a real bummer because the tires are still fairly new. I mean, I bought the car in early 2010, but it was pretty much out of commission for the year I was in Indonesia. I’ve put fewer than 30k miles on the car since I’ve had it.

But you do what you have to do, and paying off a hefty AmEx bill will be what I have to do this time next month. I’d already splurged a little last week – I bought three shirts on sale at LL Bean (I have NO decent clothes post-Peace Corps and it’s getting bad), plus “Grand Torino” and “The Full Monty.”  My cell phone bill also came due, etc., etc.

But I have a new tire now, bishaa. Fortunately the associate with the purple dredlocks didn’t bother suggesting I buy two of them. Normally you get flack when you only get one tire at a time.

This will stave off my hubcap-buying. I currently have three but haven’t seen a match to complete my set. I don’t want to pitch the three good ones and just buy four more, though.

So, the previously-mentioned HostFest is next week and suddenly I’m going to be there a lot more than I thought.

A well-meaning supporter called on Thursday and let us know that, without asking, she managed to secure Hope Village with a booth.

In the end, this is a good thing, I think, because it’s free and we can get publicity. But OTOH, in order to get that, I have to sit and create a PowerPoint, a display board and then handouts and also somehow staff the thing for five days.

The official hours are 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. When I asked the well-meaning lady what peak hours were, she said 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. Joy.

So we’re looking at that. I guess the worst-case scenario is that I wind up doing the whole thing myself. Since I’m mentally preparing myself for that, I don’t think it will be so bad.

Repeating: Uff da!

Uff da!

So, Hostfest is coming up and everyone here has their thoughts turning to All Things Scandinavian.

Hostfest is, of course, the largest Scandinavian thing going in North America, and obviously you know that all kinds of blond people descend on Minot during the four-day  (or maybe it’s five, I’m sure you already knew this) festival.

It’s huge. It’s at the fairgrounds, of  course, but you knew that. This year, Dierks Bentley and Vince Gill are among the artists playing, but it’s that (for some reason) Irish O’Donnell person that all the older folks go to.

Of  course, everyone knows this. I’m only learning, but after 13 weeks here I’ve picked up on it. I’ve probably been asked “Are you going to Hostfest?” as many times here as I was asked, “Wech kliti ksks?” (“Have you eaten couscous?”) in Morocco.

And yes, I am going. I signed up to work the salad booth for Our Savior Lutheran Church. I’m not entirely sure what it entails, but I’ll figure it out. I’m on for Sept. 28, Mackenzie’s birthday.

And I’ve started warming up on the whole Scandinavian thing. On Friday, I got enlisted to make lefse (LUF-sa). This is, essentially, a tortilla made out of potato. But it’s just the tortilla; there’s nothing in it to eat. I guess people spread butter or something on them – I wasn’t privy to that part.

The process was as involved as making the deep-fried red beans and rice balls, only there was no ham surprise.

First, you peel potatoes. Lots of them, as this particular batch of lefse (not sure if that’s plural or not) was intended to be sold Sunday at church for a fund-raiser for the day care.

After the taters are nekkid, they get boiled and then riced.

Yes, apparently that’s a verb. I honestly had no idea what it was, but basically there is such a tool as a ricer that looks like a giant garlic press. You load it up with potatoes and squeeze them and they get shredded into potatoes the size and shape of rice noodles.

Me, I’m a grain rice person and completely forgot that rice came in more shapes, so when they said “ricer,” I had no idea of what to expect. But I discovered the verb form, and it was a lot of fun to squish the potatoes into rice.

The next step after the ricing is to mix them into dough. This involves evaporated milk, but I was involved in that step so I’m not sure what the magical ingredients were.

After that, they’re rolled into little balls, a little larger than golf balls and refrigerated for a bit.

Then, you get to roll them out and slap them on a little skillety thing. Transporting them from the pastry table to the skillety thing is done with this sword-like wooden stick, manufactured especially for the task.

We had maybe 5-6 women doing this in the church, and it was great fun. We had music playing the entire time and, since there was a lot of flour involved, it got quite messy. We had a ball, leaving handprints on each other, doing the Monkee-walk across the kitchen flood, listening to everything from “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” and the aforementioned Monkees to “Penny Lane” and “Escape” to the finale (which Susann thoughtfully dedicated to us) “Friends in Low Places.”

Fairly un-Scandinavian-like, I’d say, but fun nonetheless.

In other news, I had one of the most convenient flat tires ever this week.

The guilty screw.

It was one of those rare weeks for me when I left campus three times. I visited two construction sites and also went to the regular meeting. Usually I only leave one or two days a week.

Aside: I looked at my car book today and in the 13 weeks I have been here, I have driven 1,027 miles and filled up my tank just four times. And that includes a trip to Bismarck.

So, what I’m saying is I don’t drive much. I’m glad of that, because gas is $3.85 a gallon here in oil country.

But my car doesn’t have much of a chance to get out, so I was kind of surprised when I walked by it one evening and thought the front driver tire was a little low. I wasn’t going anywhere so I didn’t dwell on it and then it slipped my mind entirely.

The next morning, I saw it again and thought, “Oh, note to self – check tire” on the way to breakfast. And after breakfast, I walked by again and it looked even lower, so I got on it.

Found my tire gauge and as I went to check it, saw a little screw sticking out. Oh, joy.

Fortunately, this being a Flood Rebuild Central, we have tools, including air compressors. My plan was to fill the tire enough to drive down the street to the gas station and have it plugged.

That morning, though, lots of people were checking out tools, so I just went over to check to see if it would be possible to execute my plan once the area was clear.

I explained the issue to Mike, and he said if I wanted, he’d plug it for me later that day. I said sure, and offered to run up to Walmart and get a plug kit. He said he liked one particular brand, then remembered he had one in his truck right the.

So, essentially, instead of waiting for the afternoon, he just had me pull up right then and he plugged it. He didn’t even pop the tire off to do it.

So that was lucky. And honestly, it was about the worst thing to happen all week, so that means it’s pretty good.

Uff da!

Time’s flying

Every Friday, I have to write a journal for AmeriCorps, summarizing what I’ve done over the past week.

As a result, I can tell you exactly how many weeks I’ve been here

.

In today’s case, it’s 12. That’s three months as the weeks count, though my arrive-in date to Minot was, I think, June 18.

But 12 weeks down means 40 to go, and that is a very weird thing. I feel like I just got here, even though it’s started to get chilly in the mornings. (Although, come to think of it, it was darn chilly some of those June mornings, too.)

I’ve done quite a bit since I got here, more so than during PC service. Most of that is I’m not dealing with a Japanese volunteer countering my every move and I have a supportive supervisor. So yay on that.

I am, however, falling behind in blogging. Not writing, though. This is my third blog post today, as I wrote two for www.hopevillagend.org. I think I did three Facebook posts, too, for Hope Village. So at times I feel like I run out of things to write.

This week, though, I had a cool highlight. The National 9/11 Flag came into town and I went up to the university to see it.

I have a whole backstory surrounding its arrival, but if you haven’t heard it I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, YES it was the story. And YES, it was cool.

This flag was damaged on Sept. 11, 2001, but was pulled from the wreckage and displayed.

 

Now, it’s been restored by survivors of other disasters. Where there had been holes, flags from other disasters have been sewed in.

The thing has two little white patches, too: one is made up from a piece of the flag that draped Abraham Lincoln’s coffin and the other has three stitches that were made from thread taken from THE “Star Spangled Banner” flag – the one Francis Scott Key saw through the rockets red glare. And I got to hold it.

So it was very cool to see that, with the long procession of fire fighters and personnel from the air force base here.

We also have Stars of Hope in town, which are an artistic and cathartic thing for the flood survivors to do. They had a painting at the university here and the stars look really cool. 

 Tomorrow they’re being placed in the community. I’m in a back seat position on that bus now, but I do hope things work out all right for the community on that one. A team up from Joplin brought them in and I’ve had very little interaction since the initial news conference.

Truthfully, I have no idea of what’s going on but neither does anyone else. I just hope it works out all right.

But man, that flag was cool.