Curt.
“Save my seat.” Curt folded his napkin and strode to the podium, tall and handsome in formal attire. He spoke of the difficulty of reconciling energy and conservation, and the creative solutions that were emerging. She saw people scribbling notes on the backs of programs. When he returned to his seat, she applauded not just for him but for the festival and her new friends. They were smart, curious, and ambitious, exactly the kind of people with whom she would surround herself if possible.
But as the applause faded, so did her good mood. Home was California, and as appealing as the new Dickinson appeared, she didn’t fit in anymore. Life was different on the West Coast. Although it was in some ways harsher, she had learned to thrive there and no longer questioned its requirements.
On the dais, the MC had given the podium over to the governor of North Dakota. A compact man, he stood before them, his eyes piercing behind wire-rimmed glasses. When the crowd fell silent, he gestured toward the exhibits in the far wing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, who knew that right here in our midst we have such a rich diversity of artists? Such talented and heartfelt people–doesn’t it make you proud?” He held up a sheaf of papers. “I brought some notes about the economy and such, but after I walked through the east wing, it didn’t seem relevant.
“Tonight, as I was getting ready to come here, I raced out the door, my mind on work. You all know how that is, don’t you? We rush through our days, and sometimes we forget the important things.” He gazed over the heads of his listeners. “We forget who we really are, and where we come from. But tonight, I’m remembering, and I owe that to the artists.”
Karen thought of the paintings she had seen before dinner, especially that of the broken-down windmill and barn, and she imagined the wind tearing through the abandoned structure. Now that things were hopping in Dickinson again, how would the artist deal with his or her memories? What did he see when he stood at the edge of his old farm?
The governor’s voice cut through her thoughts. “…they worked from dawn to dusk farming rocks. It was their life plan. The Germans who immigrated here from the Banat region in Europe had a saying: ‘To the first generation is death; to the second, hardship; to the third, success.’ May we justify their sacrifice and fulfill their dreams.”
Karen saw she was not the only one at the table who was moved. “I wish I could meet him,” she said.
“Follow me.” Curt led the way to the front of the room, pushing through a throng of admirers. The governor turned. “Dr. H.”
“I’d like you to meet Karen Grace. She’s a Weiler, from Dickinson, although lately of California.”
“Welcome back.” The governor took her hand. “I hope the professor is extending plenty of North Dakota hospitality.”
“He definitely is. In fact, we played a round of golf yesterday at the Bully Pulpit.”
“Beautiful place. I wish I had more time for that.” He guided them to a semi-private corner. “What brings you back home, Karen?”
“I’m visiting family.”
“The best of reasons.” He signaled the photographer. “Let’s get a picture of the three of us. Give me your email address and I’ll have a copy sent to you.”
Karen handed her card to the governor.
“Human Resources? My goodness, the eighth circle of hell.”
She laughed. “It can be.”
“I’ll tell you, Karen, I have this assistant who’s driving us all crazy. I mean, he is talented but moody, and if he’s having a bad day, it’s all over with for the rest of us–wait a second. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be working.”
She took the card back and scribbled her cell number on it. “I’ll be here for a few more days if you want to talk.”
“Just a few? Too bad for North Dakota.” The governor’s aide pulled him away and Karen followed Curt out to the terrace. The early June evening had already turned
“Save my seat.” Curt folded his napkin and strode to the podium, tall and handsome in formal attire. He spoke of the difficulty of reconciling energy and conservation, and the creative solutions that were emerging. She saw people scribbling notes on the backs of programs. When he returned to his seat, she applauded not just for him but for the festival and her new friends. They were smart, curious, and ambitious, exactly the kind of people with whom she would surround herself if possible.
But as the applause faded, so did her good mood. Home was California, and as appealing as the new Dickinson appeared, she didn’t fit in anymore. Life was different on the West Coast. Although it was in some ways harsher, she had learned to thrive there and no longer questioned its requirements.
On the dais, the MC had given the podium over to the governor of North Dakota. A compact man, he stood before them, his eyes piercing behind wire-rimmed glasses. When the crowd fell silent, he gestured toward the exhibits in the far wing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, who knew that right here in our midst we have such a rich diversity of artists? Such talented and heartfelt people–doesn’t it make you proud?” He held up a sheaf of papers. “I brought some notes about the economy and such, but after I walked through the east wing, it didn’t seem relevant.
“Tonight, as I was getting ready to come here, I raced out the door, my mind on work. You all know how that is, don’t you? We rush through our days, and sometimes we forget the important things.” He gazed over the heads of his listeners. “We forget who we really are, and where we come from. But tonight, I’m remembering, and I owe that to the artists.”
Karen thought of the paintings she had seen before dinner, especially that of the broken-down windmill and barn, and she imagined the wind tearing through the abandoned structure. Now that things were hopping in Dickinson again, how would the artist deal with his or her memories? What did he see when he stood at the edge of his old farm?
The governor’s voice cut through her thoughts. “…they worked from dawn to dusk farming rocks. It was their life plan. The Germans who immigrated here from the Banat region in Europe had a saying: ‘To the first generation is death; to the second, hardship; to the third, success.’ May we justify their sacrifice and fulfill their dreams.”
Karen saw she was not the only one at the table who was moved. “I wish I could meet him,” she said.
“Follow me.” Curt led the way to the front of the room, pushing through a throng of admirers. The governor turned. “Dr. H.”
“I’d like you to meet Karen Grace. She’s a Weiler, from Dickinson, although lately of California.”
“Welcome back.” The governor took her hand. “I hope the professor is extending plenty of North Dakota hospitality.”
“He definitely is. In fact, we played a round of golf yesterday at the Bully Pulpit.”
“Beautiful place. I wish I had more time for that.” He guided them to a semi-private corner. “What brings you back home, Karen?”
“I’m visiting family.”
“The best of reasons.” He signaled the photographer. “Let’s get a picture of the three of us. Give me your email address and I’ll have a copy sent to you.”
Karen handed her card to the governor.
“Human Resources? My goodness, the eighth circle of hell.”
She laughed. “It can be.”
“I’ll tell you, Karen, I have this assistant who’s driving us all crazy. I mean, he is talented but moody, and if he’s having a bad day, it’s all over with for the rest of us–wait a second. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be working.”
She took the card back and scribbled her cell number on it. “I’ll be here for a few more days if you want to talk.”
“Just a few? Too bad for North Dakota.” The governor’s aide pulled him away and Karen followed Curt out to the terrace. The early June evening had already turned
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