I spent this past holiday weekend in North Dakota. My brother Troy, his wife Danielle, Ang, and I piled into Troy's gas guzzling, yet mercifully roomy Yukon for the trek to visit Mom and her husband. Troy had his 10 year high school reunion, and since my original plans of flying up to Toronto this weekend fell through, I decided this was a great opportunity to visit the family, otherwise I probably wouldn't see many of them until Christmas.

We finally hit the road around 5 on Friday, agreeing that we would stop to eat at the Subway in Monticello. Unfortunately we arrived to find that it had been torched by an arsonist. Perhaps some pissed off former sandwich artist wanted to see myriad posters of Jarrod and his crooked smirk melt into a pool of oblivion. With our first choice at risk of structural collapse, we ate at the DQ Grill & Chill next door. I haven't eaten an actual meal at a DQ in years, so I thought I would use this as an opportunity to try one of their Flamethrower Burgers they've touted on television so much. I love hot and spicy food and hoped the grease and spices would loosen my stubborn stools that had been backing up for a couple of days. The burger was tasty, but I'd rate its heat somewhere between black pepper and a moistened towelette on the Scoville scale. Unfortunately, it loosened up nothing more than my noxious gases. The rest of the ride to Mom's place, I filled the Yukon with the most horrid cloud of ass imaginable. It smelled of fried meat, spoiled eggs, and a trash can topped with fruit-filled vomit on a hot summer day. Poor Ang attempted to retaliate later with her own contribution, but there simply was no comparison to my putrid colorectal emissions.

We rolled into Mom's around 11:30 pm. More accurately, we shuddered into Mom's. It was no surprise that driving the many miles of heavily traveled, winding gravel roads leading to her house was like rolling over a washboard in a Radio Flyer on triangular wheels. This, however, was the worst condition in which we had ever found these roads. The roads lead to several popular fishing spots on Devils Lake. Add to that a new lake home development, and it makes for an excessive amount traffic for a gravel road to handle, regardless of how often it is graded. Smooth the road, and two days later, it's a washboard again.

We were all exhausted when we got to Mom's, so after staying up briefly to chat, everyone went to bed. Ang and I retired to one of the very private spare bedrooms in the basement, but there wasn't even any boning. Now that's pretty damned tired!

On Saturday evening, after spending a lazy day relaxing and catching up with Mom, we headed to Cando (pronounced CAN-doo), about 60 miles away to catch up with our cousin Ryan and check out the drug and alcohol rehab center where he works just outside of town. At the center, Ryan cooks meals, takes residents on outings and leads various activities, and in typical Ryan fashion, is a general smartass. Afterward, we had a beer at a local bar, after which Troy and Danielle left for the reunion. Ang and I drove separately in Mom's car, so I drove her around town. Five minutes later, we were done. Actually, we tried to track down my uncle, but he apparently was out riding his Harley with his wife.



Before leaving town to drive past the farm I grew up on (Mom sold it about a year after Dad died), we realized we were starving. Dining options are limited in Cando, so we stopped at yet another DQ. Across the parking lot from the restaurant is a faded sign shouting Cando's quarter-century-old motto, "You Can-Do Better in Cando." I've taken issue with this slogan from its inception. First, why the dash in "Can-Do?" "Can" and "do" are two completely distinct, unhyphenated words last time I checked. I would accept it if the slogan was "We have a can-do attitude in Cando!" But it's not, so I must stamp it as WRONG!



Also, I would like more specifics in that motto. What is it I can do better in Cando? Can I play the piano better? Be better in bed? Run faster? Increase my fire-to-kill ratio? I'm not making any plans until you provide to me in writing a bulleted list of things I can do better there. I don't want to quit my job, rent a U-Haul, pack my shit up, and drive 7 hours just to find that I can knit 5% faster and improve my dried cow shit tossing accuracy.

Not being in any particular hurry, we took the meandering back roads running past our old farm to get back to Devils Lake. Not that Ang didn't believe me, but I wanted her to see just how far in the middle of BFE I lived throughout my childhood. We chatted with Mom and her husband for a while and were in bed by 11. Since my phone was roaming, I had turned it off, so I missed a series of text messages from my sister-in-law that are amusing now, but would have been progressively alarming at the time.

12:07 AM: Where aree you guys? You're not doin it are you?

It's distinctly possible we were.

2:14 AM: I think troy is getting a dui. I'm not even sure what I should be doing. I'm sitting in the car while he's in the cop car. Should I get out?

State patrol officers and cops in general love it when the plastered significant other stumbles out of the car toward the squad. They enjoy playing a guessing game as to whether you are coming over to shoot them or not. It adds unexpected spice to the situation. And as the saying goes, spice is the spice of life. Um... no, wait...

2:28 AM: Just in case, we are fine. Troy blew ok. Cop loved it!! Well be home soon.

Whew! I should also note that I simply can't come up with a better joke than she did there. It turns out that Troy was pulled over for having a tail light out. He had enjoyed several spiritous beverages throughout the night, which he admitted to when asked (though "a couple of beers" were actually "a couple of six-packs of beer"). Thankfully he had slowed down as the evening progressed, and was under the limit. The lesson learned is that if you have a tail light out and KNOW you have a tail light out (he had known it was out for quite some time), it's probably not a good idea to be drinking any amount of alcohol and getting behind the wheel, particularly at 2 in the morning during Labor Day weekend. Or anytime for that matter.

Sunday was yet another lazy day of visiting, reading, and watching TV. Troy and Danielle took off for another reunion-related event and returned in time to head into Devils Lake to meet our uncle Doug and his wife for dinner at Pizza Hut. Just what I needed to calm my quivering, quacking sphincter. But first we stopped so Mom could pick up a few groceries. I realized I need to wander through the bulk aisle more often.



Monday night we arrived back at Troy's place around 9 pm, far later than I had anticipated or hoped. By the time Ang and I got back to my place and took care of some pressing business, she didn't get home to feed her lonely kitty (her literal kitty, not a euphemistic kitty) until 11 or so. It was great to see my family, but I was relieved to sleep in my own bed (well, in my own home -- I fell asleep on the couch again). And next time, I'm bringing some matches for the car ride.