If I could be a superhero…

What kind would I be?

The kind that saves a kitten stuck high up in a tree?

The one who looks into the future as well as to the past?

The type that can fly so high or run really fast?

No. I think I’d do it differently than many people would.

Not rob the rich to feed the poor like a new-age Robin Hood.

Not stop a robber or catch a villain within a cloak and hood,

I think I’d find some different ways to do my kind of good.

I’d conjure up some rain clouds to ease a scorching summer,

Then sing the rain across the land with rock-and-rolling thunder.

I’d listen for all cries for help over every rock and under,

And tend to each and every one, no matter the number.

I'd fly my pony through clear blue skies out o’er the open prairie,

And in our wake, the flocks and gaggles to the south we’d carry,

Then romp and roam as lookout over all the hills and valleys.

We’ll find the lost and safely get them right back to their families.

In wintertime, I’d carve a path for wildlife to wander,

And ease the route to find a way to clear and open water.

In summertime, I’d be each creature’s personal fly swatter,

And bring some breezes from the north when days grow long and hotter.

I’d find my way to do some good where others might not see.

That’s how it plays out in my mind, and maybe that’s just me,

But that’s the kind of superhero I would like to be.

It’s All About Relationships

Relationships are a major theme in my writing. Each of my books focuses on how relationships are integral to the making of a good, or possibly bad, human … or possibly non-human. Quirks, uniqueness, or oddities are what I love to focus on. Those weird, non-nuclear familial concoctions inspire me in real life, so that’s what I write. In the end, isn’t it relationships that so many of us seek when we open a book? New friends and family sprawled vulnerably in ink across the page? 

Yes, plot is important. Heaven forbid we stray too far from the ever-present chokehold of the mountain graphic organizer, neatly placing the exposition at the foothills that lead toward the treeline ridge of rising action, which brings us seamlessly up to the climax (or high point if you’re in my 8th-grade classroom), then cascades beautifully downward into the falling action, only to nestle sweetly in a pool of resolution. (Oh my. Was that all just one sentence?) 

We pick our way through the bramble of grammar and syntax, trimming and pruning a neat little path up and down the mountain. But if I’m being honest, and I am always honest, I want to feel something. I want to struggle but trust the author. I want to fight my way through words and paragraphs and chapters with my emotions, relating somehow to at least one character in a way that feels real and a little raw, perhaps. 

I want to see the characters in such a clear light that, if I met them on the street or in a coffee shop, I would recognize them and feel confident to carry on a meaningful conversation with them. Maybe even share a deep, dark secret or dream. I want to know them. And for me, the only way to try to make that happen on my pages is to foster a relationship between each character and their potential readers.

This is a difficult task for me. It takes me time, so so so much thought, and more empathy than I ever believed I was capable of. But, as I have said before, I can do hard things. I might not be able to pump out two or three books a year, but at least I will know with each new story I offer up to the scrutinous eye of readers out there, that I did my best to find them new friends, heroes, families, and maybe even a villain or two.

"But you have your summers off?!" I hear so often as a teacher when I happen to have a weak moment and accidentally let it slip that I am tired, exhausted, pooped. But the truth is, I actually think I work harder throughout the summer than I do any other months of the year. 

And I LOVE it!

On a farm, something is always hungry, dirty, empty, broken, sick, too long, too short, too dry, too wet, not quite done, or needs redoing. Plus, as I get older, at the end of each summer day, my back hurts, my hands are sore, my shoulders ache, and my brain is mush.

And I LOVE it!

No need for a gym membership here. 

Sometimes, however, I find it hard to balance my inside time with my outside time. Like today, though it's an absolutely beautiful, sunny 79 degrees out, I am inside writing for the morning. I've tried taking my laptop outside to write on the front or back porch, but my brain feels too pulled toward distractions whenever I try that. Not to mention the glare on my screen. My solution has been to think of my day in chunks of work/reward time. 

I just put in a load of laundry and steam-cleaned the living room carpet. Now I get to revise a chapter of Nokota Voices 2 (working title).

I just filled bird feeders, mowed the lawn, and scooped poop. Now I get to write my blog.

I just cleaned the chicken coop and swept the barn. Now I get to read a friend's pdf book so I can give them a review.

It works in reverse, too. 

I just finished my blog. Now I get to trim a pasture tree and go make some junk art.

I just wrote 5 pages. Now I get to weed my vegetable garden and eat all the sugar snap peas.

I just did a bunch of research for my book. Now I get to enjoy a drink with my husband on the porch and watch a thunderstorm roll in.

See what I mean? It's just my weird little way of finding balance as I blaze through the summer. Then, I'll be on to autumn!

Nature's Color Bursts  

In honor of Independence Day and Canada Day, enjoy some floral fireworks from my gardens! These are the kind that won't spook your horses, dogs, or cats. No thunder jackets. No mosquitoes. No having to stay up waaaay past your bedtime.

I love gardening! Perennials, annuals, herbs, and vegetables - I love them all. I get that from my mom. My mother is a master gardener. Her green thumb is like no other. She just looks at a sickly plant and you can tell it's starting to feel better. She has that special touch you can't learn from a book or website or Facebook group. While I did not inherit that superpower, I did fall in love with being in the garden because of her. 

I remember weeding rows and rows of vegetables when I was little. She would pay me 10 cents per ice cream pailful of weeds. Only once did I layer the weeds light as air in my bucket to make it look full. When I presented it for payment, she gave me a dubious look and smashed them down to the half way mark. Lesson learned: No cheating.

I would sit in the grass-clipping-lined aisle with my little bucket and sing to myself while I picked weeds - from the root. Always go for a "good pull," that's the kind where you literally feel the roots giving way. Mom, in her sun hat, worked from the opposite end. We would meet somewhere sort of in the middle (Usually closer to my end. She was a way more efficient weeder.) and move on to the next long row. The sun bleached my hair white and browned my shoulders, but I didn't mind. When I tired of singing, the birds took over, and I dreamt up story after story. Something about the repetitive motion and satisfaction of looking back at the clean dirt lulled me into daydreams as it still does today. 

Though my daydreams have certainly changed, the weeds have not. They keep on coming, persistent little buggers. It makes me think of the weeds in my writing. I write a chapter, put a solid punctuation mark at the end, smile, and close my laptop, thinking, "Dang, that was good." Then I let it rest a day or so, read said chapter again, and oh my heavens to Betsy is it suddenly full of weeds. Wordy phrases, unnecessary descriptions, over-dramatic dialogue - it all needs a good editing pull. Then I read it over after I've filled my proverbial 10-cent bucket, and I get the same satisfying feeling as looking back on clean dirt in the garden. Heck, I've weeded this blog enough to go to Dairy Queen.

So everyone, happy Canada Day, happy 4th of July, happy gardening, and happy weeding!

As the school year rolls to a painstakingly slow close, my heart aches for home.

My 8th graders are done (and pretty much have been for about three weeks). My colleagues are done (our witty banter has slumped to bland comments about the weather between blank stares). My inner cheerleader is spent (I've never been good at feigning enthusiasm). And to those who have ever found themselves saying something like, "But you're a teacher. You have your summers off!" I usually reply with a laugh, "I know! I don't know why everyone doesn't do it."  But the truth is, my body is crying for that ever-blessed two-and-a-half-months affectionately known as "Summer Vacation" but should really be called "Recovery Period". 

I need to be home. Not on vacation. Not on a beach or at some cabin in the woods. Home. I just want to go home.

I want to get up with the birds, water and weed my gardens, love and train my horses.  Care for my chickens, dogs, and cat. Scoop poop. Cook and bake. Clean the house. Hang laundry outside in the sunshine. Mow. Make my weird and wonderful crafts. Read books and write reviews for those books. 

Most of all, I want to write. I want to curl inward at my laptop and let Forever Fields and Paisley Noon engulf me again. I can't wait to see what Paisley Noon gets up to each day. Even typing these words makes me smile.

Here is a poem I wrote long ago. I typically share it with newlyweds and then give the couple a fun collection of starter recipes. But for some reason, it hits home with me today. 

Enjoy!

Home Recipe

By Julie Christen

What does it take to create a home?

A place where you’ll never again feel alone?

If it was all written on a recipe card,

I bet it’d be complex, but prob’ly not hard.

You’d start with a crate full of laughter for flavor,

Then mix in a dozen warm memories to savor.

A bowl full of ideas, hopes, and big plans,

A heart full of love, you’d fold in with your hands.

Then you’d sprinkle a palm-full of hard lessons learned,

And season it all with each triumph you earn.

Next, you’d mix it all up with some family and friends,

And mash it and mold it, smooth out bumps and bends.

The secret ingredients: heritage and advice

Will be just what it needs to add mystery and spice.

You’d bake it inside four walls strong and sturdy

For as long as it takes … be it one year or thirty.

You’ll know when it’s ready; it’ll be no surprise

And serve generous portions to all who stop by.

Yes, that’s how that recipe card would look

If it were a part of a homemade cookbook.

Have I mentioned I have too many hobbies? These are just a few of the weird and whimsical creations I've put together from scraps piling up around our farm. Wood destined for the bonfire, scrap metal from some ancient tractor project my husband regrets starting, and random pieces broken off of said tractor projects or found in the field and ditches. 

Sure, Pinterest ("the tool of the devil created by women" - as my husband refers to it) helps inspire me, but in the end, when the glue hits the metal, I am the one who makes the final call. Some are not great, others turn out better than I imagined. 

As with most of my artsy, fartsy creative outlets, it's a lot like writing. Regardless of the inspiration, the process, or the outcome, when it's all said and done, my stamp is on it. A little piece of me. One of a kind.

It calls to mind a very brutal yet crucial critique I received from a trusted beta reader. I had tried so hard to polish up the segment I was sending her. I used Grammarly to its fullest. No red lines. No gold lines. No squiggly lines whatsoever. A grammatically edited masterpiece! So the feedback I got was wholly unexpected. 

When my reader said, "It's good, Julie. It's fine," something didn't feel good or fine at all. After a little prodding on my part and a lot of humming and hawing on hers, she finally busted out and spilled what was bugging her. "It's written very well, Julie. But ... it just doesn't sound like you anymore. It's like someone else wrote it." 

Mind blown. Heart crushed. Thoughts whirling. Defenses at the ready.

It took me some time to figure it out. Like weeks. But I could not let it go. Finally, at some point, I got sick of looking all the auto-grammar lines and prompts to upgrade. It was just creating too much screen noise for my already buzzing brain. So I shut it off. I shut it all off. I quit letting it boss me around. 

And guess what. I found my voice again. Just sitting there like a patient friend who'd been sidelined. It never left. Just waited for me to come back. And come back I did, with open arms. Sometimes, it's not perfect. Just like me. Sometimes, it's clever and odd. Just like me. But just like my junk art, it's got MY stamp all over it. 

Oh, not to worry, Grammarly still has a place and a purpose, but it's not the driver. I'll shove it in the backseat and let it visit with me from there. 

In addition to having fun getting reacquainted with Paisley Noon and all the characters from Nokota Voices as I continue to work on the second Forever Fields book... 

Click here to order

It's time for another...

Sister Chicks Adventure!

I am trying to raise my own chickens again this spring. With the price of eggs so high, and my flock dwindling a bit after the weird winter, I figured it was time. So out came the big and clunky Fleet Farm incubator and the various Rubbermaid totes full of all things CHICKS.

I had a rather dismal outcome this first time around. Only two out of ten eggs hatched. Several were not fertilized in the first place. That's not on me. That's on Sherriff Andy, my rooster. Spring has not completely sprung for him, perhaps. Then a few eggs just up and quit by the second candling on day 14 (of 21). The super technical term for these is "Quitters". So I had high hopes for the remaining four. Two dark chocolate brown eggs, and two lovely pale blue ones. 

After much fretting over whether I had the humidity right, and the temperature right, and the candling right, "labor day" came and went. No chicks. Where did I go wrong? Immediately, I believed they all perished at my hand! I could just cry.

My husband said, "You can't take it so hard. It's just nature."

I said to him, "This," and I waved my over-emphatic, over-emotional hands at the Styrofoam box with wires and heat elements and water channels, "is not nature." I drew in a quivering breath. "This is me pretending I'm nature." I let out said breath and finished with, "I don't know if I'm cut out for this. How does a mother hen do it?!"

But he talked me into not giving up just yet. So I re-read EVERYTHING I'd already read and studied several times over! I woke up in the middle of the night to Google questions I hadn't yet thought of. I must have missed something, right? As you can imagine, the internet is littered with a thousand different opinions and a plethora of advice, and of course, most of them contradict each other.

In the end, all I could do was wait.  On day 23 (not day 21 like the books say), the two dark ones hatched! The first one cheered the second one on as she worked her special hatching muscles to break free of her shell. I guess they didn't read the books. Now, these little sister chicks have each other. They are so stinkin' cute, I can hardly stand it. I can't wait to see what funny, sweet, or oddball personalities they develop as they grow and become part of the flock. Their adventure has just begun! 

I'm sad to say the two light blue ones didn't make it, so I think I will try again in a few weeks. I counted it out on the calendar and found that if I start a new batch on Easter weekend, they should hatch on Mother's Day. Wouldn't that be neat!?

Enjoy Sister Chicks To The Rescue!, inspired by my own lil sister chicks. 

And so our Minnesota winter is coming to an end. 

It's time to do the slow wake up like the black bear. My muscles are aching to stretch and be pressed to their limits again. The hard ground feels different under my feet now that I'm wearing paddock boots or tennis shoes that hug my feet and encourage me to run instead of trudge. It's like when I was a kid and got a new pair of tennies and thought they made me run super-fast. Quite different from the bulky mukluks that warm to -30 degrees. 

It's time to dream of green plants and baby chicks. My green thumb is itching, so I bought a seed starter kit. We'll see if the cat doesn't have her way with that little setup in the window. My longing for new life won over my good sense, so I am also collecting eggs for the incubator. Can you have too many chickens? I think not. 

It's time to plan summery adventures. A Harley trip out to Yellowstone National Park ought to do the trick. Another trip to North Dakota is a must too. I miss my Kuntz Nokota Ranch family! And who knows what other getaways will crop up as the days go by and the farm sitters remain willing. 

But it's also time to play at home. Make crafty stuff I don't really need. Ride my horses and love on them without the bulk of layer upon layer of Carhartt. Run out to get the mail or quickly close the chicken coop without spending ten minutes dressing for it. Watch my flowers grow. Listen to my birds sing. Soak up the sun on the back porch in the afternoon with the dogs as the poplars and birch sway in the background.

It's time to swipe away the sleepy cobwebs in my dusty mind and get back into action mode. I am excited about a speaking event coming up this month at the local library where I will promote Echoes of the Nokota. It's always an honor to tell folks about Frank Kuntz and the Nokota horses. Maybe some spring horse events will provide opportunities too. Most of us are ready to creep out of our winter nests.

And finally, it's time to keep writing! The second installment of Forever Fields is underway. I am popping and humming and brimming with ideas. What fun it is to launch again into a world I have already prepared with Nokota Voices. Paisley Noon and her faithful dog Prairie and steady steed Journey have so much more to come!

Happy Spring, everyone. And happy writing!  

I miss snow.

I miss my flurry friend.

It's been a few years

since it's come for a lingering visit,

the kind that takes me back to my childhood

no matter the aches in my bones

and joints

or back

or hips

and head.

I miss the play. 

The dance in the sky

that drifts to my soul — 

those floating, fluttering, crystalline blossoms

that alight upon an eyelash 

delicate as a lover's kiss,

yet in numbers,

possess the power to halt the world.

I miss experiencing a clean slate, 

literally

then internalizing it, 

figuratively.

The calm and quiet 

muting, soothing, 

allowing a restless mind 

a few still moments.

I miss the reason for the word

cozy

after a workout shoveling.

Horses tucked in the barn

hay up to their knees

soft light on

floofy blanket and cat in my lap,

good book in my hand,

honeyed hot tea at my side,

good dog at my feet.

Life in a snow globe.

I miss my friend snow.

 I tend to be a Nervous Nelly. It doesn't take much to make my jaw clench or my tummy knot up. I have a special knack for predicting all the potential horrors in pretty much any situation. The What-ifs of my world know no bounds. Just ask my brain from 2:30 AM to about 4:30 AM.

    Case and point: two book signings in Bismarck, ND with Frank Kuntz and his family. 

• What if my car breaks down and I arrive tragically late?

• What if I realize three hours into the 7-hour trip that I brought the wrong box of books? Or worse, I forgot to bring ANY books?

• What if my dinosaur iPhone 5 decides this is the weekend to finally kick the bucket and I can't take credit cards?

• What if no one shows up? You know, like you used to imagine when you were little and had invited all sorts of kids to your birthday party.

• And what if Frank doesn't have a great experience and never wants to do this again?

    As with 99.5% of my What-if scenarios, none of these things happened. In fact, it was quite the opposite! We could not have asked for a better day, from the family-filled Balancing Goat Coffee Shop experience to the busy, bustling Barnes and Noble extravaganza. We drew people in with our winning personalities ;) and our love for the Nokota horses. We signed books. We sold books (sold out even!).  We talked about books and stories and writing and struggling and living. 

    Jitters dissolved early on as we realized our best advertising technique was to be ourselves and let the people see who was really behind the story we peddled.

    We already have plans to do more events together, particularly this coming summer with Chasing Horses at their store right in Medora near the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Who knows how that will go!?

    Oh jeez, here come the jitters again...

Author’s Note

This book is a memoir. It reflects the authors’ present recollections of experiences. As time passes, memories are echoes of events. Some names and characteristics have been changed to protect privacy, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated; however, the tone and emotions experienced remain true.

Nokota® is a trademark breed name developed by Frank and Leo Kuntz and the Nokota Conservancy in Linton, ND.

 ***

This is a success story. It may not seem like it at times, but I assure you, it is.

This is Frank Kuntz’s story. It is about how he and his family came to save the native horse – the Nokota®. It is my way of putting together a comprehensive collection of his memories and the events that led him to become the unsung hero he is today.

I have done my best to share both his story and the horses’ story in a way that helps people learn, understand, and empathize. What might look to one as a life of sacrifice and strife is, in truth, a story of love and faithfulness. It is about allowing passion to drive your choices in life.

Since I am, indeed, not Frank, I have taken some creative license (with Frank’s blessing) to fill in some gaps and bring his story to life. I have written in such a way that will allow you to walk next to him as you discover the man and the horses I have so dearly admired for over twenty years. Please allow a little grace and creative latitude should you encounter some muddy gaps or misaligned details. Know that, whether it be for loss of memory over the decades, purposeful omission due to emotional pain, or ensuring certain individuals are not painted in a negative light, the story runs true to that which I have learned from Frank and the few trusted individuals he encouraged me to seek out.

And sometimes, we must accept the fact that every person’s story deserves a resonating tone of mystery. We don’t need to know it all. Where would the magic be in that?

It is also worth stating that this book was written from Frank’s memories, Frank’s perspective. The opinions and attitudes expressed here are his. This is the way he sees things. This is his side of the story. He has a right to that as we all do.

Everyone knows you don’t accomplish great things alone. Many people have played a role in the preservation of the Nokota breed, and still do. Rightfully, they deserve their own story someday.

This is Frank’s story.

He saw something special in the native horses doomed for extinction in the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. He has spent over 40 years loving them and trying to find a way to help them. And even though the quest for a permanent home for his herd still goes on, the fact is, the Nokota® horse is here to stay because of Frank and his family. Maybe, just maybe, you and I can play a part of our own in helping Frank’s promise come to fruition.

Being a man who is kind, humble, and generous to a fault, Frank’s perspective is often hidden in the shadows. It is time for his story to be heard. He is, in my eyes, one of the greatest unsung heroes. So here, I will sing.

Prologue

June 4th, 1949

Standing strong on a prairie plain inside the fences of the newly dedicated Theodore Roosevelt National Memorial Park, black as a starless night, a wild stallion cleaves the spring air with his clarion whistle.

A blustery wind swirls the stallion’s mane up into a maelstrom of wildfire. His senses press out to the far reaches of the land. He is searching – always searching. His little band of mares and yearlings graze quietly below his overlook. They are safe, fed, and together. He makes sure of it.

The stud tosses his head and flares his nostrils. He seeks what he cannot take for himself – others like him. His ancestors. His family.

He cries out again. This time his call is threaded with lament – a cry for help.

He searches for one who would hear him. One who would fight for him. One who would make his family whole again.

April 4th, 1951

At the Kuntz family homestead in Saint Michael, North Dakota, a cry rings out from the upstairs bedroom in answer to that call. The fourth child, in the fourth month, on the fourth day, at 1:04 in the afternoon.

Frank Kuntz’s journey begins.

Follow Frank and the ponies on their journey from the beginning.   

    A year and a half ago, while winding down a long day with a glass of wine on the front porch, my husband's phone rang. It's funny how we don't get too many actual phone calls these days. Texting is usually efficient enough for most things, but when we saw the name Frank Kuntz on the screen, he said, "Huh, look at that. It's Frank Kuntz."  

The two visited a bit and caught up a little. How are your folks? How are the ponies? But it didn't take long for Frank to come right out and say to my husband, "How do you suppose Julie would you feel about writing my story?" 

That's when the phone got handed over to me. I listened to Frank's thoughts. I listened to him tell me not to answer right away. This would be a huge undertaking. This would require a lot of time. Then he told me how hard it is these days to find people he trusts, but he was tired of being quiet. He felt it was time for people to know about his lifetime fight to save the native horse of North Dakota.

Like I said, I listened to everything he had to say. But the truth is, from the moment our conversation started, I already knew what my answer would be. Yes. Yes. And Yes. I had no idea how I would make it happen, and I knew it would be difficult, but I felt in my bones that I was meant to play this part in the Nokota® horses' timeline. I hope Frank's story inspires readers as much as it has me. 

So it is with great honor that I present Echoes of the Nokota. A Memoir of Frank Kuntz.

How has one man’s life's mission to make an unjust thing right – to save the native horses of the North Dakota plains – changed history? Or rather, preserved it?

Growing up in small-town North Dakota, Frank Kuntz led a typical, country life with lots of brothers and sisters, hard-working parents, and farm animals of every kind. He learned the value of a dollar, what it meant to show your worth, and how to care for the things and people that are important to you. After serving his country in Vietnam, he returned with ghosts of wrong-doings and injustices haunting him, but he continued to work hard, start a family, and have a farm of his own just a mile down the road from where he grew up. 

On a parallel timeline to Frank’s life, the free-roaming descendants of Sitting Bull’s war ponies were inadvertently fenced inside the Theodore Roosevelt National Park at its inception. Thus began their struggle to find a place in a world where they were no longer wanted. And even though they faced extinction at the hands of humans over and over, they were designed by nature to survive. But how long can a wild horse herd stand against the prejudice of humans? Somewhere, deep inside their memories of ancestors, they knew their people still longed for them to return home and once again rejoin their families. Instinct told them their help would have to come from man – one whose soul understood their soul. So they waited. They survived. And they listened.

Never in his dreams did Frank Kuntz think that he would become the one they were waiting for.

Once in a while, choices are made that change the fate of others. The prairie winds shift, the stars align, history is saved, and legends are made.

Riddled with pain, anger, and sorrow … this is a tough story.

Sculpted by the hardest of times … the best of them too … this is a family story.

Founded on promises and passion … this is a love story.

But most of all, despite the sacrifice, loss, and injustice … this is a success story.

This is Frank’s story.

    I can do hard things. I know this. I've seen it on posters, memes, TV commercials, so it must be true. Right? I can do hard things. 

    I can make a lemon meringue pie with my grandmother's 1950s Sunbeam stand mixer with the offset bowl and beaters I've licked a thousand times (Yes, cookie dough and cake mix with uncooked eggs. Gasp!) Grandma's hot pink fingernail polish on the front still marks the beater you're supposed to put in first. Although once in a while, just to tempt fate, I put that beater in second, and somehow things still turn out fine.

    I can clean a chicken coop that is loooong past due, ripe to the very core. By the time I get it all spruced up, I'm covered head to toe in chicken dust. My hair turns a lovely shade of gray, and I won't mention what the contents of my Kleenex look like when I blow my nose later at night. Did you know each chicken poops 50 times a day? Yep. They sure do. I have 20. 

    I can spend a fall weekend up North at the hunting shack with sketchy cell service, non-existent internet,  and running water that comes from a pump in the neighbor's yard. I do this so I can cook for and clean up after the guys, who would otherwise eat nothing but meat sticks, drink beer, and then trip over their power tools.

    I can stand in front of a room full of 13 and 14-year-olds with a lesson that I pictured would be the greatest lesson ever dreamed up, prepared, and practiced by any teacher for any student EVER. It's a lesson that is sure to get me a fast-track ticket to the Teacher Hall of Fame (There is a Teacher Hall of Fame, isn't there? Somewhere?) and probably change all my students' lives in some meaningful, magical way. Then, somewhere around the middle of class, I end up pretty sure no one is actually listening and realize they're probably just wondering what's for lunch or if I forgot to comb my hair that day.

    I can pour my heart, head, and soul into writing a memoir for someone who is very important to me. I can wake up in the middle of the night over and over thinking "Oh! I should write about this next!" or  "That's how that sentence should go!" then roll over in the darkness to tap the fleeting idea into the notes on my iPhone 5. I can worry and fret (and maybe, at times when no one's looking, cry a little) over whether I'm doing the story justice. I can check my email and texts for replies from interviewees so many times that I develop a tick. I can run the timeline through my brain like credits at the end of a movie, then check and re-check my pages and pages of notes just to make sure I've got it right. I can second guess my knowledge of grammar and commas and dashes and conjunctions and fragments and citations, and … oy, where's the Tylenol?

    I can do all these things because they are important to me. It really is just that simple. It's all so darned important to me. So, I'm going to keep working, trying, failing, then trying again as I continue - as I hope you do too - to remind myself that I can indeed do hard things. 

 Echoes of the Nokota Coming Soon!

     Day 1 Therapy

1 I wandered down the hall today, my heart all in a flutter.

The lockers shining, the floors pristine, and hallways free of clutter.

But I swear the air felt like that eerie calm before the storm

So I took a moment to still my heart with mem’ries fond and warm.

~ ~ ~

5 I remembered timid faces, bashful eyes, and unsure glances;

Some sized me up and wondered if they’d dare to take some chances.

Their folders all were filled with paper, brand new crisp, and clean.

Their heads were filled with good intentions, well-laid plans, and dreams.

As time went by, the gigglers giggled; class clowns played their jokes,

10 But I had faith they’d soon turn into clever, insightful folks.

Soon pencils vanished, papers crumpled, lockers bulged and jammed,

And teachers dreamed of swaying palms in some far-off land.

But hands and light bulbs popped over heads; ideas and confidence grew,

And my love for teaching was confirmed with every small breakthrough.

15 Before I knew it, the year was over; my kids were moving on.

I realized then that I would truly miss them when they were gone.

I wondered, “How can I preserve each growing work of art?”

So I gazed into each face and took a picture with my heart.

~ ~ ~

Now as I wander down the quiet, empty halls today,

20 Sweet mem’ries soothe my soul to send this school year underway.  

Just give me a little time to plan, and a big ol’ cup-a-joe,

Some paper, pencils, and bulletin boards, and I’ll be good to go!

     In my spare time...

I'm not actually sure what "spare time" is, but I've been working very hard on my next book. It is a memoir I am writing for someone very important to me. I find myself thinking about it all day and a lot of the night. How should I phrase this? Am I getting the timeline right? Is this going to make him proud? 

Regardless, I haven't got the mental capacity to write something fresh for this month's blog, so I thought I would share one of my other pastimes - writing children's stories about my chickens! My nieces particularly love hearing about the latest Sister Chicks drama or adventure. They even help me think up the craziest storylines. It also gives me a chance to dabble with drawing, which I am not great at, but it feels good creating characters with a pencil instead of a keyboard now and then. 

I have to admit, I thoroughly enjoy playing around with this kind of writing. It is particularly helpful when I'm stuck with writer's block or just not sure where to go next in a novel's plotline. It's like a writer's jungle gym to get the fog out.

      I had my niece come stay at our farm for a week. She's ten years old, and this was her second summer at Christen Horse Camp. I never had kids of my own, so I tend to gush a bit on my sisters' and brother's kids. You know, sugar them up and send 'em home. 

    When I was a kid, Mom and Dad did the same thing - they would send each of us kids to stay at Grandma and Grandpa's place for two weeks. We were kind of lucky because both my mom's folks and my dad's folks lived pretty close to each other out in Sheldon and Alice, ND. Two of the tiniest towns you ever will find. But it really had nothing to do with the towns. Our visits were all about life on the farm and experiencing a world so very different from our little house across the street from Little Detroit Lake in Minnesota. And even though we, as a family, traveled out there practically every other weekend throughout the school months, spending time alone - no parents, no little brothers, no older sisters - was a whole other experience.

    Each of us kids got our own week with one set of grandparents. So say I went to Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Richard's (my Dad's Wavra side) place first, while one of my sisters or brothers went to Grandma Olive's and Grandpa Frank's (my Mom's Spiekermeier side). Then after a week was up, we would all meet at the café in Enderlin and swap out. 

    Both places had their own unique features, and we did very different things.  Grandma Ruth's and Grandpa Richard's was a tiny crop farm with an itty-bitty house. The house had a living room and a kitchen/dinette. The only bedroom was in the scary, stonewall basement with the only bathroom and old-time washing machine complete with a careful-or-it'll-crush-your-hands electric wringer. I slept upstairs on the hide-a-bed, thankfully, but I could still hear the snoring coming from down there every night. 

    While Grandpa Richard worked out in the fields every day, I would help Grandma Ruth hang laundry, weed the garden, and bake cookies. She bought the "fun" sugar cereal like Sugar Pops and Froot Loops too. What a treat! She also gave me nice drawing paper so I could mail in a picture to be displayed on the Fargo evening newscast during the weather bit. Made me feel like a celebrity. 

    One of the neatest parts of staying there was playing in the bunkhouses. This farm had no animals (to my dismay), but the old bunkhouses (once used long ago for migrant workers) were more magical to me than Lewis Carroll's wardrobe! They were filled with old toys, clothes, wigs, trunks, and even a creepy mannequin that received many-a-make-over by me. I swear, every time I entered one of the three bunkhouses, I would find new treasures to imagine with.

    Just a short 45-minute or so drive away was Grandma Olive's and Grandpa Frank's farm. They had cattle, pigs, cats, a dog, and chickens! So many outbuildings and haybales to climb around in. Grandma let me feed the chickens the slop pail from under the sink every day. I would collect eggs with her and watch how she handled them. I'd tell her all the names I'd given each one, but I don't think she remembered them. 

    Since Grandma Olive spent so much time in the kitchen getting meals ready for whoever would be coming for dinner or supper, I had a ton of time to go exploring. Into the cottonwood treeline, I'd go. I built forts, identified birds and their songs, hunted for berries, and read my Black Stallion books out there. Bachi the big, fury, wolf-like farm dog and I would wander down shelter belt paths lining the fields and pastures. I'd stir up the freshest cowpies ever on those hikes. 

    In the evenings, we played cards and watched the news. I had my own room upstairs with a pretty poster bed and gauzy curtains that swayed from the open window that overlooked the tidy, fenced-in front yard. I remember listening to the mourning doves as the sun rose and sitting at a little desk to write in my journal.

    Little did I know just how many of all these memories would find their way into my first novel Nokota Voices someday. Reading my own book takes me back to all of it.

    I started my own summer camp somewhere back around 2004. My oldest niece was nine. I remember worrying that she might get homesick, but we tried just a long weekend, and she did fine. Each year after that, I got a little better at entertaining, and she got more and more comfortable staying. Since then, all of my nieces have come for a custom-fit version of summer camp with me.

    We sip coffee and hot cocoa while we read a book out loud on the porch in the morning, and sometimes we do our hair together and try on some make-up. Then we walk Nester the donkey with the dogs. We do a lot of horseback riding and grooming too (lot-o-braids). We go for bike rides and hang out with the chickens learning each of their names. We make crafts, bake, cook, and watch a ton of Heartland. 

    The girls always help with chores: sweep the barn (which can easily turn into a dance party if we crank up the music), scoop the poop, weed the gardens and flowerbeds. They also practice driving the tractor and the riding lawn mower. Sometime, if they're old enough, my husband gives them a ride on the Harley!

    I'm exhausted by the end of the stay, but it's the best tired I could ask for. 

     This time of year on a farm is so full of new life, which often translates to new perspectives for me. It's a time to look forward to the future, but for some reason - especially as I grow older - springtime sends my thoughts to the past too. 

    Here is a short story reminiscing of a time when I learned something - something about life as well as something about people. Country Magazine showcased it in its "The Way It Was" section back in 2012. I thank my "scary" Grampa Frank Spiekermeier for it. 

    This is for him.

Spring Piglets 

By Julie Christen

            At dawn, I wake in the farmhouse. I sneak soundlessly from my little cot under the window to my suitcase where I dress without a sound into my purple corduroys and Black Stallion shirt. I am not supposed to be up. The creaky stairs threaten to give away my early rising, but I continue down on tip-toe.

            The box elder bugs slowly creep along the windowsill as the sun begins to brighten the living room. The grandfather clock ticks. My feet are soundless still.

            Around the corner, I see the long kitchen counter span all the way to the breezeway. Grandma Olive stands in her housecoat and slippers gazing out the kitchen sink window at her dewy, no-frills vegetable garden while she sips her first of many cups of black coffee.

            Grampa Frank’s massive frame, dressed in pin-striped overalls swelling at the seams, sits in his spot at the end of the room on his black, vinyl-covered steel chair. His heavy boots, already muddied, grind gravel into the flooring. I see him rustling through a shoebox full of papers and receipts. He smokes a cigarette, probably not his first of the day and certainly not his last, and slurps coffee from a thermos while he listens to the tinny radio squawk about weather and crop prices and news.

            They are silent. They are the past.

            I bite the side of my lip and peek into the kitchen. It is so early for little blonde-haired girls to be up. I am up, nonetheless.

            “Well. It’s our little Julie Andrews,” Grampa says then laughs a gravelly, “Heh, heh, heh,” and grunts.

            He so often finds me in the hay shed singing to the mice. “Doe, A Deer” is my favorite.

            Coughing, coughing, coughing. Juicy, croupy, gurgly coughing. Heavy wheezy breathing. “You’re up early!”

            Grampa Frank has a gruff voice and a gruff demeanor. He is kind of scary. I just sidle up next to Grandma Olive.

            “Let’s get you some breakfast,” she says.

She fries me an egg and sits me down at the metal kitchen table. My tiny juice glass with the orange slices on the outside is filled with freshly squeezed orange juice. I try to strain the pulp through my teeth, but I end up politely chewing the juice, regardless.

They have their routine, quiet and busy all at the same time. My legs are antsy to move about. I begin playing my own kind of hopscotch on the black and white linoleum squares.

“Listen, Julie honey,” Grandma Olive says, “can’t you do that somewhere else?”

I am underfoot. I go to the adjacent dining room and stare out the picture window at the crab apple tree in the picket-fenced front yard. Nothing to do. Nothing to do.

“Say, Julie.” Her no-nonsense tone startles me out of my daydreaming. “Go with Grampa Frank,” Grandma Olive tells me.

So few words. Why did they use so few words?

I swallow a nervous lump in my throat. Grampa is already gone, his heavy footfalls pounding mercilessly. Coughing. The screen door groans and slams in complaint. I hear “Outa the way, damn it!” and cats screeching. They sit at the door looking for warmth or a scrap from Gramma, but that puts them underfoot. I know how they feel.

I can hear Bocci’s and Brownie’s toenails scratching the garage floor as they prance around his feet. The big, hairy German shepherd and golden mutt are always happy to see me too. They never think I’m in the way.

The animals compel me to go.

Following the trail of cigarette smoke, I slip on my rubber boots and windbreaker in the breezeway. By the time I greet the dogs, rub their bellies, and scratch their ears, I see Grampa is already lumbering to the hog barn.

Does he really want me with him? I wonder. He doesn’t so much as say my name or turn around to motion me toward him. He just keeps walking. This is all Grandma’s terrible idea, I think.

Stalling, I reach for the comfort of the black barn cat sitting amongst the disaster of shop tools on the workbench. It doesn’t have a name. Barn cats are for mousing. And that is it.

But I hold this one and scratch his ears while his grumbly purr soothes me, and I stare out the garage door toward the hog barn. Brownie and Bocci are already off romping into their next adventure. No one would see hide nor tail of them until nightfall, unless of course, Grampa gives a whistle.

With the dogs gone, I decide that even if Grampa really doesn’t want me with him, I will hang in the shadows of straw bales and watch him work. This is far better than being lonely.

Some clanging and banging echoes from the hog barn, but I can’t make out what Grampa Frank is doing in there. As I draw a little nearer, some thrashing and scrambling and screaming stops me in my tracks. Horror fills my veins.

What is he doing to those pigs?

I know that life on the farm is very different than my life by the lake. I know it can be … harsh. Sunday dinner’s pork chops or fried chicken or roast beef doesn’t just drop from the sky. It comes from the animals fattened in the coup and the pens and the fields.

My heart grips my chest as I wonder if Grampa is going to teach me about the harsh realities of life today. Is he planning to show me how to toughen up? Make me learn that the world is a nasty place, and you have to get over it if you want food on your plate? Is he going to try to show me how I can’t just daydream and sing songs and climb around on hay bales all day?

My throat tightens as I clench my jaw and absentmindedly squeeze the black cat. But that only makes him meow and jump out of my arms. I am on my own for the rest of the journey.

When I arrive, I see my grampa leaning over a makeshift pen of straw bales. He doesn’t look at me, but I go to him. I hear snuffling and shuffling on the other side.

When I look into the pen, I see them. Ten black and white piglets, hardly bigger than a breadbox. They’re rummaging and rutting around exploring their new space. I look up, up, up to my grampa’s face and find that he is now looking at me with a toothless grin.

He shoves his cap high on his forehead and asks, “What do you think? Do you want one?”

“Want one?” I whisper.

“Sure. To play with today. You pick out your favorite, and I’ll shoo out the rest of these.”

“Just for me? Like … he’s mine?”

Coughing. “Yep. Just like he’s yours.”

We analyze all ten discussing their markings and determining which ones have the best personalities. It’s the longest conversation I have ever had, and will ever have, with my grampa.

At long last, I pick out one piglet with a particularly interesting pattern of spots and a rambunctious personality. I name him Spot. Grampa Frank stays with me while I chase my piglet around and try to teach it tricks. He laughs his “heh, heh, heh” laugh in between coughs while he leans against the gate.

“Can I pick him up, Grampa?” I ask.

“Sure, you can. Just don’t go dropping him. He’s damn wiggly, that one.”

“I know it,” I manage to say while I strain to get Spot into my arms. “I’ll tame him, though.”

“I’d like to see that,” he says pushing his bushy eyebrows up high.

The piglet squirms with all his might, but I manage to set him down gently before he falls.

Grampa Frank grunts then says, “Go get him again there, little Julie Andrews,” as he waggles a beefy finger at me. That makes me laugh for some reason, and I am off after my pig in the dust and the straw.

As the morning warms, I play, and Grampa watches. I can tell that there is no ulterior motive to educate me on the cruel realities of the world today. Nor will there ever be. He sees me for who I am, and he is enjoying a little frivolous time with his youngest granddaughter. For the time being, I don’t recall his gravelly, scratchy nature. In fact, I wonder how I ever could have thought him scary.

I do not know, of course, that in two short years, Grampa Frank will be gone. Something about those cigarettes and that nagging cough of his. And though it will matter so very much in two year’s time, it does not matter at this moment. This is my morning with my grampa and the piglet he has given me for a day.

Pictures: My cover art drawing and Grampa Frank's Spotted Poland China Piglets

Sometimes I wonder how much one person’s voice can actually help when “fighting the good fight” against what seems like an impossible foe. But last week, my faith was bolstered.

For the last two years, the non-profit organization, Chasing Horses Wild Horses Advocates (chwha.org), has been fighting to save the remaining herd of horses in the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. These horses are the progeny of the very same horses that the park brought in to replace the Nokota forty years ago. 

NokotaⓇ horses are the direct descendants of Sitting Bull’s war ponies inadvertently trapped inside the park when the park got fenced in back in 1968. The park service decided these Lakota/Hunkpapa native horses (the Nokota) were not aesthetically pleasing to tourists (among other suspected prejudicial reasons) and, therefore, decided to eliminate them. That’s where Frank and Leo Kuntz stepped in to save as many as possible. There are no longer Nokota horses in Theodore Roosevelt National Park. (Frank and others, to this day, continue to preserve the future of these Nokota.) In the meantime, however, the park introduced domestic breeds (Shire, quarter horse, and Arabian) in attempts to propagate an appearance they thought would appeal better to people visiting the park. It’s these “replacement” horses that are now at risk! 

In December of 2022, the park laid plans to eliminate all horses … again … just like they did some 40 years ago when the Nokota were set to be exterminated. Under the guise of “historically accurate representation”, the park deemed all “livestock” to be removed. They claimed that the horses were not originally a part of the natural landscape and habitat; therefore, in the name of historical accuracy, they didn’t belong. This is all after years of questionable herd management tactics that involved population control via chemical sterilization and cruel helicopter roundups. This type of management, as I have learned from lifelong horse breeder Frank Kuntz, has been done in such a way that it basically weeded out the young, and kept the old. The inbreeding and lack of genetic diversity has detrimentally weakened the herd’s strength.

So the fight began. Chasing Horses Wild Horses Advocates (chwha.org) began reaching out and speaking up for the herd. And good people responded!

They raised funds, educated, asked for support, and helped followers know how they could help contribute to the herd’s safety and longevity. Frank has shown his support numerous times by going to speak and educate the legislature on the matter - something he is all too familiar with. He has asked them to create a policy that involves both keeping the horses in the park, as well as - in cooperation with Lakota people of the horse - slowly and carefully reintegrating the original Nokota bloodlines. 

I’ve been following their fight, and I contribute in whatever ways I can. It feels like so little. This is government policy we little people are up against! We’re trying to convince them how important an animal is to us. In the grand scheme of life, saving a herd of horses might seem very low on the priority scale, but if I've learned anything in the past twenty years from watching Frank Kuntz being a voice for the Nokota, it’s that you have to choose your fight … then fight like Hell won’t have it. No matter the odds or attitudes surrounding you. At some point everyone needs to wake up each day and believe in something a little bigger than themselves. It feels right when you find it. When you know whose side you’re on. It backs you up. Fills a gap. Gives you purpose.

All that said, it is my great pleasure to tell you that last week, a major leg of the fight to save the Theodore Roosevelt National Park horses was won! The headline read, “National Park Service to leave the wild horses in TRNP.” And even though, as Frank and CHWHA say, there is still much work to be done, it is fully gratifying that the persistent voices of some wild horse lovers have indeed been heard. Change has begun in favor of the herd. 

So let’s all celebrate the value of our voices as we also celebrate the decision to let the horses stay in the park. It all goes to prove that good people doing good things can make a difference!

To learn more and to order a copy of Nokota Voices, go to chwha.org and Kuntz Nokota Ranch.

Even as a kid growing up in Detroit Lakes, MN, I have always loved a rainy day. I loved the smells the rain brought over the lake and through the woods. I loved the quiet, soothing rhythm on the roof of my treehouse. I loved watching the ducks on the slough busy themselves among the raindrops. Hard things turned soft. Brown things turned green. Everything slowed down to breathe it all in. 

But the really special rainy days were the ones when it thundered. I remember seeing the clouds in the west thicken and take on a warm, deep, blue-gray hue. The low, rippling sounds began in the distance and meandered closer and closer. I would wait for a flicker of lightning then count the seconds until I heard rumbles. Louder and louder it grew. Sometimes it crackled across the far stretches of the sky. Other times, it boomed and then trickled away like rivulets. Now and then, it rolled in like a stampede overhead and didn't let up its intensity until the herd traveled out of earshot.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I still am in love with rainy days and entranced by a good old thunderstorm. Although, the added grown-up understanding of the need for moisture for crops and gardens can sometimes take away the magic of it all, the forever kid in me still secretly imagines.

If you love a rumbling thunderstorm during the hot summer months as much as I do, you'll appreciate this section of Sparkslingers where you'll discover what really goes on up there when the skies go dark and the rain brings the thunder.  

Enjoy this quick excerpt from Chapter 12 in my latest Sparkslingers!

Silva Starling says, “Cloud Master Bumble has approved a doozy of a thunderstorm
over some prairie lands that have been aching for rain. It’s darned near drought stage. I swear, I put in the request – filled out all the dumb forms – over a month ago. Sometimes I wonder if he even bothers reading them until there’s trouble on the edge.”

They stand in concerned silence for a moment, but then she claps her hands and rubs them together. “But, no matter now. It’s time to send down the rain and unleash the Thunder Studs!” She yip-haws and flags the Stormbud stable hands with her hat like the start of a drag race.

The door gets shoved wide open and, slowly at first, out come the Thunder Studs, stepping cautiously, heads high, then down low to sniff and puff the cloud dust into little swirling tornadoes around their stamping feet. They are shades of blue and purple and charcoal. Their white manes swirl and float like smoke from a bed of coals. Their eyes glow like embers, flickering and dancing.

Breeslin stands frozen. She can scarcely find words. “They’re so…” her breath catches, “… they’re so… clouds above … I’ve never seen anything so terrifying and beautiful at the same time.”

“Dangerous and lovely,” whispers Drift as he puts his hand on Breeslin’s shoulder. “Like any good thunderstorm can be.”

Silva gazes at her Thunder Stud band as though seeing them for the first time, even though she sees them every single day. She says softly, “We must look upon them with awe and respect. That is what will bring them home.”

She blows them a kiss filled with sparks that swirl and twirl toward their feet, making them dance in place. The low rumble is even and steady, like a room full of drums being sprinkled with tennis balls.

Then Silva reaches for a gleaming, opalescent, diamond-encrusted electric guitar that one of the Stormbud stable hands has brought her. “Thank you, Sid,” she says, then to Drift and Breeslin, “But this is what will send them out.”

As she caresses the guitar’s long, thin neck and glides her hand along the elegant curves of the instrument, it glows to life. Threads of fibrous lightning run up and down the neck and swirl around the body.

The stallion at the front sees her, as well as the gate ahead, but keeps stamping and snorting and shaking his head.

Silva stands, strong and steady, and wraps the studded strap over her shoulder with rockstar confidence. Their eyes connect. She winks, juts her head toward the gate, and picks intricately along the strings. Notes shimmer with a clear tone that dances in the air.

The steed snorts once and blows out a dark cloud burst.

This makes Silva smile, and she leans into the guitar as she continues to play. The notes become more urgent as the electric rhythm picks up.

The lead stallion responds to the music. He drums the cloud ground with a complex backbeat. The herd gets restless, flinging their heads to the rhythm.

Silva knows they’re ready now. She narrows her eyes, still locked with that lead stallion, and slides her fingers up and down the strings. Intense sound sears higher into the sky as she wields the guitar overhead and shakes it. The reverberation screams down the fence line and strikes open the gate with a blinding explosion.

The Thunder Stud rears and shrieks a lightning-strike whinny in reply. With blue fire in his eyes, he tears off in a maelstrom of havoc. Sky Steed after Sky Steed, the herd pours through the gate. Like cannon shots, they ripple past and out into the distance.

Drift holds both hands flat to his chest and sees Breeslin do the same. “I feel it. Inside my … my everything.”

Breeslin says with a breathy laugh, “Me too,” and lets the reverberation of the rumbling wash through her.

As the last one kicks up his heels and disappears with the rest, Silva sends a final hum of the guitar that follows them.

She turns to her guests and says, “And there you have it. A rumble release." 

I've been writing all my life. I think my first attempt at a full story was somewhere around the fourth grade. I tried writing my own screenplay of an "I Dream of Jeannie" episode. I even talked my neighborhood friends into acting it out. It was ridiculous and wonderful all at the same time. 

Stories swim in my head all the time. On my drive to work. On my drive home from work. During work. Walking the dogs. Weeding the gardens. Vacuuming the house. Folding the laundry. Scooping horse poop. Cleaning the chicken coop. 

I think up animal stories, magical stories, children's stories, and grown-up stories.

So many stories! Many of them make it to a yellow legal pad. I have yellow legal pads everywhere. I have my favorite kind of mechanical pencil everywhere too (Pentel Twist-Erase III Mechanical Pencil, 0.5 mm).

Some of them then make it to the laptop in an infant stage. A rare few get to come to life through the printer. Then they sit on my desk for a time. And finally, they land in the drawer. I have a lot of stories in the drawer. Sparkslingers was there for 15 years. Nokota Voices waited patiently for 10. 

Right now, I have 5 "Sister Chicks" stories. My chickens supply endless material all day long. I have 2 "Nester the Donkey" stories too. My nieces love these. I dabble with artwork, but that is definitely not my forte. I have a story I call Dream Whisperers among others that may flesh out one day, but I'm not sure. There will definitely be a second Nokota Voices and Cloud City book before that one even thinks of seeing the light of day.

For now, I am aiming all my efforts toward my first attempt at a creative non-fiction book called Frank and the Ponies. A Memoir of Frank Kuntz as written by Julie Christen. This story will not make it to the drawer at all. It's just too important to me. I am so excited for people to hear Frank's story. This will definitely be one for your to-read list. It's scheduled to come out in November, so stay tuned!

  Half the fun of writing, for me, is creating a world of my own. I have all the power! All the control over every detail. Muwahahaha... 

    But MAN is it messy! It's one thing to have a "great idea" while you're driving to work or sitting on the back of a Harley watching clouds roll by. But it's a whole other thing to put all those ideas to paper … especially in a way that actually makes sense to someone else's brain.

    When I came up with the idea to create the Cloud Council in Sparkslingers, I started out writing quick thoughts on a billion note cards. Then, when I couldn't keep those straight anymore, or keep Tally the "barn cat" (yah right) from scattering them all over, I made a couple graphics to help me. BEST trick ever! 

    Having a chart (with pictures) of Earth's actual atmospheric levels, kept me honest, as most research does. It helped me make sure I took my readers (at some point) from top to bottom too. I created a vertical world map, I guess you could say. 

    Drawing up a graphic helped me visualize the council sitting at a crescent-shaped table in the sky hall. Somehow, when I looked at it, pictures of each Cloud Council member came into view, complete with hair, clothes, attitudes, and oddities. And of course, I couldn't help imaging the drama, like any middle school lunchroom might have. As I wrote, I organically came to love some of the characters and hate others. That stirred things up in my mind and made for some wickedly fun writing! 

    So even though Sparkslingers has an abundance of magical creatures, the human-like characters (with even more human-like flaws) are what make this story relatable, no matter your genre preference.

Tally is absolutely zero help.

So now, I give you the Cloud City Cloud Council. Enjoy!

Chapter 5

Cirissa stands poised before the Cloud Council in the Sky Room. Though being the subject of their attention is always unnerving, she is confident in her purpose.

“Cloud Masters, I’ve seen it for myself. The Rim in Median is nearly impenetrable. Something has made it – unnatural. And I tell you, several in the Ice Crystal Guard believe it is connected to the sludge. It is our suspicion that Murkemer is experimenting with elements unauthorized to him.” She narrows her icy eyes. “We believe he is up to something.”

The Cloud Masters continue their casual murmuring with each other at the crescent-shaped glass table that spans the length of the Sky Room. The opaque floor beneath their feet shows the ocean gently rolling far below. Cloud columns lining the room roil within their pillar shapes.

Cirissa sighs with frustration. This topic has been avoided too long now. She takes a deep breath and says, “Cloud Masters, I must insist the matter of Murkemer’s suspicious activity be discussed.”

She looks to the lovely Cloud Master Tendril for help. Even though Master Tendril is the representative for the highest sector of the highest cloud plane, her kind manner is a comfort to Cirissa. Besides, when Tendril speaks – rare as it may be – Skybounds listen.

Tendril meets Cirissa’s eyes then rises from her seat at the farthest end of the table. Iridescent, gossamer strands flow from every inch of her wispy body. Her steps, light as air, carry her forward. The delicate strands drift in her wake, then float independently around her as she stops next to Cirissa. The other Cloud Masters hush.

“Gracious Cloud Masters, our esteemed Ice Crystal Guard agent here brings a disturbing point to our attention.”

Cirissa can’t be sure, but she swears she hears a “harrumph” escape in the guise of a cough from the center of the crescent table. Master Bumble of the Cumulus Sector is suspiciously rubbing his bulbous nose with his white-sausage fingers.

“Truly, Masters.” Tendril turns her head to address the full council from one end of the table to the other. Her rainbow strands of hair swish with the slightest movement. “Though few of my fellow Crystalines in the Cirrus Sector are willing to acknowledge it, I cannot deny what we have sensed brewing far below in the Stratus Sector.”

Cirissa breathes relief. Finally, someone will support her.

Master Bumble clears a gooey gurgle from his throat and says, “Blurble. Why should we care what Murkemer is up to?” He sweeps a pillowy arm toward an empty seat – a plush, gray gamer’s recliner complete with cup holder – at the end of the crescent table. “He never bothers to show up for meetings, gurrup.”

“I have to agree with Master Bumble,” says Cloud Master Shreddard of Cirissa’s own Cirrostratus Sector. In his smoothly arrogant way, he says, “That kid’s got issues, sure, but why make him our problem?” The sound of sharpening blades echoes through the Sky Room as he leans his stick-straight, crystal-encrusted form back in his ice-spiked chair. A smug grin curls the corners of his mouth as he crosses his arms.

Cloud Master Makryl of the Cirrocumulus Sector, sitting to Shreddard’s right, strikes her scepter on the clear floor. Her long, white ringlets bounce, but her round face remains serene. Very Bo Peep. Everyone seems to sit up a bit straighter. She closes her lavender eyes slowly. When she opens them, her icy lashes now adorn blazing red-orange eyes, as though the sun itself shone from inside them.

Shreddard watches her in awe. His eyes flicker with deep violet.

Master Makryl’s voice is lulling, almost too calm, when she says, “I believe the most efficient way to deal with our problem council member would be a swift volting. That will snap him out of whatever sad, little issues he’s got in that sad, little head of his.”

Murmurs of ascent grumble throughout the room. Even Cloud Master Loom, who typically tries to stay silent, nods her enormous head, and the wind generated from her flying saucer-sized sunhat blows down upon the council members. They all steady their goblets. Her floral Mumu flutters dangerously with miniature lightning strikes.

Bumble reaches up and pats her gargantuan knee. “There, there, my little Loomikins. It’s alright.”

Jagged hairlines of lightning flitters underneath Loom’s brim.

The wind has spun Tendril’s ethereal strands into a rat’s nest over every inch of her. She sighs, does a shiver shake, and all the strands loosen in a flourish from the tangled mass and go back to floating.

“My dear esteemed Cloud Master Makryl,” Tendril says in an attempt to calm the energy in the Sky Room. “I am sure your tactics work marvelously with your little charges. I am certain I am not the only one here who has a deep appreciation for your service with our Cloudlings and Shards. And I can’t even imagine how you work your miracles with all those darling puffs.” She chuckles lovingly and tsk tsks. “You are a wonder, dear Makryl.”

Cloud Master Makryl’s shoulders straighten even more, though Cirissa can hardly see how that’s possible. Her face beams with pride as she continues to look serenely upon the others. Shreddard eyes her lustily.

Tendril continues delicately, “I’m just wondering if there might be a slightly less, um, severe strategy for dealing with Cloud Master Murkemer. Especially considering he is rather young and somewhat new to our council. After all, losing his parents not so long ago has been difficult for him, no doubt. And absorbing all the Stratus Sector responsibilities, as we all know, is no simple matter.”

The council members remain reverent as they recall Murkemer’s predecessor.

Cloud Master Drizzo of the Stratocumulus Sector puts down her fingernail polish, carefully raises her goblet and says, “To Cloud Master Slurry.” All members raise their glasses. “May his journey through the Great Beyond be sweet and peaceful, just like he was.” Drizzo carefully sweeps her out-of-control frizzy hair from her face and takes the first sip.

They all take a sip. Cirissa notices a few tears and sniffles. But when Loom goes to blow her nose with the tissue she has stuffed in her stocking, everyone braces again.

Bumble frantically reaches over his head and pats her knee like he’s trying to put out a fire. “There, there little Loomy Poomy. Everything is alright. It’s okay!”

Loom thankfully sucks in her emotion with a shudder. It pulls up everyone’s hair then drops it back down as she lets out a quivering breath.

Cirissa can’t hold back. “But it’s NOT alright.” She has never spoken so sharply to the council. “It is NOT okay!”

Tendril raises an eyebrow with a look that shows she might be a little impressed. Then Cirissa notices her casting a glance at Cloud Master Virgus of the Altostratus Sector. Virgus returns Tendril’s look with a tiny smile as he lounges back in his zero-gravity lawn chair, all tan and summery, with Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. He runs a hand through his luscious, blonde locks, his biceps bulging under his Hang Loose t-shirt. Tendril’s cheeks flush. He nods at her, apparently also a little impressed with Cirissa’s more direct approach with the council.

Bolstered by Tendril’s look of approval, Cirissa continues. “Please, esteemed Cloud Masters, “I’m not saying anyone has to become his new best friend, or anything of the like. I’m simply wondering if one of you might be willing to check in on him.”

No one seems to be able to make eye contact with her. They’ve all become suspiciously interested in their goblet.

Then Cloud Master Castella of the Altocumulus Sector pipes up bright-eyed, like she just got a dynamite idea. Her hot pink wind suit crinkles as she slaps her hands on the table. “Could it be considered a super-secret mission?” The tawny old Cloud Master whips her gray hair into a bun on the top of her head, pops out of her wheely chair into ninja stance, flips her dentures with her tongue, then snaps them back in.

Shreddard says, “Gross.”

Castella winks at him.

Cirissa blinks. “Well, I guess I don’t think it has gotten to that point just yet. I was imagining just a friendly visit. See how he is doing. See if he is in need of a little guidance, say.”

Castella deflates, yanks her bun out and crumples back into her seat.

Shreddard rolls his eyes and says, “Why don’t we send Drizzo.” He leans forward to look at the ashen-faced, frizzy-haired Cloud Master down the table. “Weren’t you two like a thing?”

Drizzo nearly chokes on a swig of her drink. Then she dabs her mouth with the sleeve of her dingy housecoat. “No way. I mean, yes, we were, but that was a ridiculously long time ago.” She blows on her freshly painted gray nails.

Shreddard notes, “You just broke up like a month ago.”

“I know,” she says, unperturbed, and shrugs him off. This matter is closed.

The council members awkwardly eye each other for a painful amount of time. Cirissa is about to lose hope and start working out another way to help her dear, dear Wayfare and the sweet little town of Median.

Then a raspy voice echoes softly from the far end of the table next to Murkemer’s empty chair. “I’ll go to him.” Cloud Master Shroud’s quiet words barely escape from underneath the hood that covers most of his face.

The council members all lean in to hear better, but Shroud offers nothing else. A gloomy aura floats about him that’s always made most of them feel uncomfortable, to some degree, but Drizzo seems unaffected by it.

“Well,” Drizzo chirps, “there you have it.” She reaches down rather indelicately to pull out the cotton balls stuck between her toes now that their polish is dry.

Tendril and Cirissa look at each other then back to Shroud. It’s not common for the Nimbostratus Cloud Master to speak, much less volunteer for anything. This is indeed unexpected.

Tendril says, “Thank you, Cloud Master Shroud. I believe I speak for all of us in saying we appreciate your willingness to help.”

Shreddard says under his breath toward Makryl, “Taking one for the team.”

Master Makryl swishes some of her long ringlet locks aside and returns his comment with a knowing glance.

Cirissa isn’t sure on the details, but Shroud and Slurry had been like brothers. Perhaps this will provide the perfect opportunity for Shroud and Murkemer to get to know each other.

Shroud rises from his weathered, wooden armchair. He folds his hands and nods so low that his entire face disappears within his hood. Then he effaports into a fog that whips upward, and he’s gone.

Cirissa isn’t sure what to do or say. It had happened so suddenly.

Shreddard takes no time. “Well, that does it.” He begins to get up. The knife blade scratching of his innumerable dendrites signals the end of this meeting. “Shall we adjourn?”

A general murmur of agreement rumbles across the crescent table as the meeting breaks up. Cirissa stands forlorn with Tendril. Virgus strolls over.

Virgus, his hands in his Bermuda shorts pockets, says, “Well, we’ll see what happens.” He shrugs and knocks Tendril playfully with his shoulder. “Shroud’s an odd duck, but he knows what he’s doing. Right, Ten?”

Tendril smiles almost girlishly as her gossamer strands still wave from his bump. She composes herself enough to say with reassuring confidence, “Of course he is. Now, Cirissa, go to your Kindred Wayfare. I know you worry about him. What does he think of having his little brother as his new apprentice? The book has been planted and our little WISP commander, Breeslin, reports Deret is on the way to discovering it.”

Cirissa smiles, but it’s forced. She feels her face flush at the mention of Wayfare’s name. “He’s managing just fine. I think he’ll warm to the idea. He seems …” she looks inward for the right word, “… tired.” The look on her face betrays her attempt to minimize her feelings for him.

Virgus tilts his head and grins warmly. “He’s a good dude, that Wayfare. They don’t make ‘em like him anymore.”

“I know,” says Cirissa looking down through the clear floor. “I know.”

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Do you have what it takes to sling your own spark to fight sludge?

Find out in:

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Helpful Terms to Know 

Spark: The vital force that nourishes and propels life; the inner element within all living things which initiates drive, desire, longing; that which makes one want.

Cloud City: Weather-making city in the sky, organized into three major atmospheric planes comprised of ten sectors. (See Figure A.)

Cloud Master: Ruler of each sector. Works with a precise set of checks and balances to maintain the intricate workings of Earth’s climate. (See Figure A.)

Skybounds: Beings that live in the sky.

Earthbounds: Humans and creatures on Earth. They do not see or know of what goes on in Cloud City. Their instinctual desire for more is boundless, to the point of self-destruction.

Sludge: Sentient, but non-discerning fog created by Skybounds to travel Earth’s surface in order to dampen and regulate excessive spark levels.

Catalyst: Unique and highly uncommon Earthbounds with a spark-slinging genetic blueprint. Their kind traces back to before Skybounds began regulating spark with sludge. Catalysts are sympathetic, reasonable, and passionate. Once trained by Skybound experts to share (or sling) their spark with others, Catalysts are assigned a section of Earth. There, they fix spark level imbalances left by the sludge on living entities. They work under the guidance of an assigned Skybound supervisor called a Kindred.

Sky Levels and the Skybounds Who Govern Them

(Figure A)

~ Introductory excerpt from Catalyst Academy 101

Prologue

Creeping along the quiet forest floor, it comes. The sludge reaches its long tentacles up saplings. It stunts them. It oozes through shadowy ferns and wilts all in its path. Sludge shadows cling to the trunk of a sequoia tree and creep up, up, up to a nest. Black-mist claws reach in and find two owlets waiting, mouths open. Dark vapors fold around the babies until their beaks close. Their tiny bodies slump. They no longer want. For anything. That’s what the sludge does. It takes away the spark.

When done feeding on the owlets, it slithers down the tree and around boulders upheaved from the mossy forest floor. There is no spark to suck from a rock, for rocks want nothing. The sludge glides over decaying sticks and twigs. There is nothing to leech from these things either, for the dead has no spark. The dead cannot want.

It seeks. It always seeks. It is in a constant search for that thing it cannot create and cannot hold. For that is the nature of Want. And so, the shadow sludge continues through the forest on its hunt. Every sense tuned, peering, listening.

Suddenly, it hears footfalls approach, quick with intent. The sludge twists in the sound’s direction. Its vapor tentacles prickle with anticipation at the possibility of a spark feast. Then it glimpses a streak darting into the owl tree, and it hears the babies squawk for their mother once again. Happily, even! Their spark has been reignited. Verdant green foliage flows in the streak’s wake down the sequoia and through the woods, bright and alive. This is not a feast after all, the sludge knows. It is time to leave this part of the forest.

Silently, before the streak slows enough to notice it, the sludge sinks into the shadows and sets a new course, for now, to find more spark to sap. It knows it is no match for who is coming – Catalyst Wayfare Day.

I'm so excited to share my first YA Sci-fi Fantasy novel with you! I hope it's as fun to read as it was to write.

The Series:

Cloud City – a megalopolis in the sky where all the workings of Earth’s atmospheric phenomenon are created and governed. From the highest Cirrus clouds, to the lowest Stratus clouds, throughout ten of the earth’s atmospheric levels, whimsical characters and creatures abound. When Skybounds and Earthbounds team up against the evil makings of natural disasters and climate-changing storms, “predicting the weather” takes on a whole new meaning.

The Story:

/’spärk/: The vital force that nourishes and propels life; the inner element within all living things that initiates drive, desire, and longing; that which makes one want.

Deret Day’s got spark. Lots of it. He always knows exactly what to do. It’s been his gift for as long as he can remember, and it makes him stand out in his dreary little town of Median. But it’s not until he is mysteriously led to find an even more mysterious book about clouds, that his “just fine” life is headed for so much more.

Recruited into an atmospherically diverse team of other Sparkslingers, Deret’s natural spark-slinging abilities lead him into a turbulent world in the clouds where Dusk Dragons, Storm Ponies, and countless other magical creatures abound. There, he discovers what really goes on in the sky to make weather happen.

A few years ago, one of the most memorable Nokota(R) stallions, which I had the privilege to meet in person, passed away. And it just made me so sad. 

They called him Papa Smoke. He was beautiful, proud, blind, and magical. Just to look at him brought visions of long-ago, windswept prairies. His thick neck, powerful stance, and unruly mane commanded respect. His soulful, unseeing eyes lay hidden beneath his wild forelock -- his sight stolen by another stud's kick. His mystical aura was something one had to experience to truly believe. 

I'm not sure how old he was, I just remember thinking he died too soon. But wild horses don't tend to live as long as domesticated, pampered, blanketed, vetted horses. And that made me think of all the great herd leaders and mares who've come and gone, creating the Nokota bloodlines I admire so much. 

So I imagined a space in our universe for them. A place where they go when their time here is done, but a place where I can imagine them living anew. 

Forever.

Here's to all of them. 

Forever Fields

By Julie Christen

In a place of endless prairie

And sweeping grassy land,

Runs a rare, historic herd

We'll call the ancient band.

The winds eternal carry them

O’er butte and valley floor,

Whisp’ring tales and legends

Of those who’ve gone before.

Overo and dun,

Jet black and stealy roan,

Strawberry and silver,

Now forever home.

Grey Wolf, Hawkeye, and Target,

Black Fox, Midnight, Bad Toe,

Wolf Vixen, Katz and Jumping Mouse,

Our noble Grandpa Smoke.

In endless youth they kick and frolic,

Race and bite and play

They echo hist’ry’s lessons,

Within those here today.

Among the flow’rs, within the rain,

Part of the gentle sun,

Through windswept manes and feathered locks

Their story still lives on.

I honor those who’ve traveled to

A place where I imagine

Forever fields of majesty

Preserve Nokota legend.

“It’s just a phase.” 

I heard this a few times growing up. 

“Lots of little girls go through a horse-crazy phase.”

For a time, I believed it must be true. But the vision of being around horses always tickled the back of my mind like an itch I couldn't scratch. The gentle motion rocking me back and forth, the warm breath on my palm after snuffling up a treat, and a shaggy forelock over soft, soulful eyes. It all stayed.

I never grew out of my horse “phase.”

At 53 years young, I try to remember when, exactly, my love affair began. My memory isn’t sharp enough to put a time stamp on it, but when my dad found these 1974 photos from his slide collection, I realized it started when I was very, very young.

At four years old, on a family camping trip to Theodore Roosevelt National Park, I was flung up onto a trail horse behind my mom and away we went. No helmets, signed waivers or mounting docks. Just the two of us on a gentle horse. Though the details of that particular ride have faded, I know with certainty that I was not afraid, but comfortable, like sitting on a sofa as we watched the countryside go by. I remember reaching my hand back to pat the soft rump over and over as we ambled along a winding trail. I remember not wanting to get down when it was over. And when it was over, I remember watching my horse through the fence rails until we had to drive away.

I also know that on this trip, my family marveled at a wild herd of horses roaming free. The herd clustered together, tails swishing, foraging to their heart's content on native grasses. We watched them with awe. And even though the park would eventually decide they weren’t “pretty enough” for the tourists, and plan to eliminate them in order to introduce more domesticated-looking horses, we thought they were beautiful. Maybe we were a different kind of tourist.

The Kuntz brothers would be saving those wild horses soon. I love that I hold this connection with them.

My mother had grown up with horses. I would ask her to tell me again about those she had as a little girl growing up in tiny Sheldon, ND. How Grandpa Frank bought a pony named Patsy and a big Palomino named Sparky. How she rode to school. How the ride going out was always much slower than the ride coming home. She would tell me about riding with her cousins to a trickling spring, the perfect spot for lazy summer afternoons and tossing chokecherries to the fish.

So many of her memories made some of my favorite scenes come to life in Nokota Voices.

I am amazed at how life has a way of taking off down the road, and before you know it, you’re leaning hard on your knees, huffing and puffing, looking back. Then you wonder, “How did I get here?”

Now I sip my morning coffee and look out at my horses and donkey grazing in the dewy morning hours. Who would ever have guessed that three of those would be Nokota horses – possibly descendants of those same wild ones we marveled at on our family vacation so long ago.

It wasn’t “just a phase.” It’s a reality.

It's been two years since my husband and I brought our Nokota® horses home from Frank Kuntz's farm in Linton, ND. Since then, we've often been asked, "So when are you going to be able to ride them?" 

Our standard reply is, "When it's time." 

Anyone who really knows me, knows I do pretty much everything very slowly. I always have, even as a kid. Call it overly cautious, timid, incapable - whatever. It's just how I am. From cooking to crafting, it's not uncommon to hear someone say it's hard to watch me do things. So it should come as no surprise that training my own horse is, indeed, going at a snail's pace.

A couple weeks ago, my seventeen-year-old niece was visiting from Wisconsin for our own little horse camp. Long story short, at some point, I had RainyDay's saddle cinched up tight, and I eased myself up to hang my full weight over his back and dangled my arm over. He just stood there. I looked at my niece and said, "If I had my helmet on, I'd swing my leg over and get on him. 

She replied, as only a brave teenager could, "You're already on him."

She was right. So I carefully brought my right leg up, rubbed his rump with my hand a little, told him to stand and that he was a good boy, and I swung my leg over.

And he just stood there. Huzzah!  Then I got down after about 30 seconds. And he just stood there looking at me like, "That's it?" I told him he was the best little war pony on the planet and thanked him. End of lesson. It was a good moment.

Next time, we may even move! LOL

Talking with Frank last week, he reminded me that these horses are not for everyone. The Nokota aren't meant to become push-button horses and, therefore, trained as such. Even though I have said, time and again, that I really don't know how to train a horse, Frank has encouraged me from the beginning to do this myself. Why?   

He says it's not about training for a purpose. Do this. Now do that. Because I said so. It's really about building a friendship. Creating a relationship, just like with the important people in our lives, often takes a lot of slow time. That time is filled with struggles, patience, fun, failures, time off, time on, frustrations, and celebrations. That is how I've been trying to think while working with RainyDay. We figure out how to meet each others' needs and try to remain sensitive to them. And I'm sorry (not sorry), anyone who says you can't talk to a horse, has never looked into the soul-filled eyes of a Nokota.

"Soul Full" 

Photo taken by me with my junky little iPhone 5.😊

It's easy to write the words Frank says. It's even easier to read them. But now that I am living them with RainyDay, I truly am grasping them. What probably looks like slow-motion training, is quickly becoming one of the most fulfilling parts of my life. I look into RainyDay's eyes and feel waves of friendship coursing between us. And, mind you, none of it has gone perfectly, but he is so patient with my fumbling, stalling, and whoopsies. Then he says, "It's okay. You can try again."

So I do.

Brothers. This word means something different to everyone. Whether you have a brother, wish you had a brother, are just like your brother or the complete opposite of your brother. You may look up to your brother. You may criticize your brother. You may be close. Or you might distant. For some, you aren't even related, but you are brothers just the same. 

The dynamics of brothers are endless and in constant motion. 

Being a middle kid, with two older sisters and two younger brothers, I grew up watching my brothers play and bond in ways we sisters just didn't do. They were wild and funny and crazy and sweet. Though they were both unique in their own ways, early in their years, they became friends. And still are. 

As I grew up and moved on in life, it often bewildered me to discover other brothers often had very different relationships than that of my own brothers. So I watched. I studied.

My two cousins from North Dakota always fascinated me. Not only were they goofy balls of energy, they were so talented and creative! They would ride their bikes to the junkyard and bring home … well … junk to fix up something broken on their farm, or to make something new from scratch. Old washing machines, scrap metal, tires, you name it, they could breathe life back into it. Problem-solvers to the max. I admired them so, and still do. 

Another set of brothers (these from my grown-up days), also from North Dakota, grew up among several other brothers and sisters. Frank and Leo Kuntz helped the family farm function, as so many large farm families did back in the day. Riding as soon as they could walk, they grew up on the back of a horse, making them into two amazing horsemen, trainers, and breeders. But these two specific brothers found early in their adult years that they shared a very unique, common passion - one that would tie them together forever. The Nokota horses. 

Once Frank and Leo had time to study the horses in the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, it didn't take long for them both to recognize these horses' strong bone, iron-like constitution, curiosity, intelligence, and empathetic heart. Perhaps they saw much of themselves - Vietnam veterans and later cancer survivors - in these horses. Regardless, they had the foresight to know just how special the horses were. Together, the brothers joined forces to protect as many of these descendants of Sitting Bull's war ponies as they could in order to preserve and maintain their bloodlines for future generations. And though Leo passed away in 2018, Frank warriors on in the fight still to this day.

The brothers often didn't see eye to eye on many things. Emotions sometimes got the better of them. Life circumstances toyed with their relationships and responsibilities. But when it came to the horses -  their passion and commitment to saving them - that was where they could always agree. 

In Nokota Voices, the brothers - Heath and Henry, Griff and Lenny, and Tate and Remy - are fictional, but the real-life brothers I've known provided inspiration. From antics to temperaments, I tried my best to create as vivid, and hopefully relatable, characters as possible. In the end, however, it's the relationships that I hope you remember most.

Here's to all your brothers! Maybe someone is out there watching them too.

Character Inspiration #4: North Dakota? Heck YES!

Can a place be a character?

According to a speaker I saw at a writer's workshop get-away in Bemidji, MN … heck yes, it can! Particularly (according to said speaker) if you're from the Midwest. He was from the south, and he said he found it "peculiar" how so many writers hailing from the Heartland brought the land, and the weather that comes with it, to life like a character playing a part in the story just as much as the humans.

North Dakota's vast stretches of prairie, pasture and cropland have spoken to me since childhood. Since my family's roots are from the Enderlin, Sheldon, and Alice area, I have deep-seated memories of traveling to both grandparents' places many-a-weekend from Detroit Lakes, MN. I preferred to sit in the way back of our Gran Torino station wagon with the dog most times, as opposed to "on the hump" between my older sisters and little brothers. In the summer, I would look out the back window and wait for a field of happy sunflowers to smile at me, or marvel at a sea of wheat waving in the wind. Everyone would holler, "Hey look, Julie! Horses!" And I would try to count them all along each trip. The round bales dotting the slopes, I always imagined, were crouched buffalo napping peacefully across the fields.

While my childhood memories spurred the setting for Nokota(R) Voices, my most recent travels to the Kuntz Nokota Ranch in Linton the past few years have refreshed my love and fascination for North Dakota. Buttes and valleys beckon me to explore. Abandoned, old farmsteads, crumpled from age and overgrowth, whisper mysteries of a day gone by. The relentless wind sweeps over me, testing the stuff I'm made of. The rain, and the mud that comes with it, sings a song of growth and hope. Even the sun's beating rays soak into my pores to brand every exposed inch of me, claiming me for a time.

And the clouds! Oh the clouds on the prairies of North Dakota …

Storm clouds loom on the horizon like snow-capped mountains. Cottony fluff clouds merge and wrestle into shapeshifting creatures. Wispy, white strands, painted in ethereal brushstrokes, sore across the endless blue canvas. These clouds, to this day, create stories in my mind where cloud-beings control the weather, and the cloud creatures of my imagination come to life. All of which you will encounter in my next book, Cloud City Sparkslingers!

So YES! Places become characters if you let them tell you their story in their own special way. Let Nokota Voices transport you to the wide-open spaces of North Dakota!

This is more about being humbled (which in turn led to inspiration) by several people during one moment in time. It was the event that lit the spark within me for the NokotaⓇ horses. And that spark became a flame that continues to burn like a prairie fire in me.

MN Horse Expo. State Fairgrounds. I go every year. Faithfully. It’s like Horse Christmas. All things horses - shopping, clinicians, exhibitions, classes, and breed demonstrations. My favorite is the breed demonstrations. Each breed at the Expo gets about 10 minutes in the coliseum to show off their best “breed standard” qualities. Many of the stables put on quite a fine show. Some come out in great numbers and perform a drill team routine set to thrilling music. Others have several riders come out advertising the wide variety of disciplines their breed is capable of performing. Western, English, hunter/jumper, dressage, driving - you name it. Their outfits are smart and sharp or showy and flowy. An announcer reads a script provided by each breed’s representative which covers a bit of history and breed descriptions.

One year, however, which I’m inclined to say (and not lightly so), changed my life. It also earned me my “Most Humbling Moment Award” when the Nokota horses, and the people behind them, won my heart. 

It happened over a decade ago now.

I remember like it was yesterday.

The coliseum quiets. Hooty windpipe music flutters and echoes throughout the vast coliseum. I wait for the next demonstration. My expectations are set high based on those I’ve seen so far. I look at my program. “Nokota” it says. I’ve never heard of this breed. I am anxious to learn.

And then they come in. 

It’s not organized. There are no fancy outfits. They are wild and unruly - horses and riders both. There are no saddles. No bridles. No music routine. Just pounding hooves and flying hair. And lots of it.

I am not impressed. To me, they’re doing a sloppy job of showing off their breed. I can’t believe someone hasn’t fallen or hurt themselves. Plus, it seems no one has so much as run a brush over these horses, much less a comb through their manes and tails. They all look shaggy and rough. Again, horses and riders both.

The worst part, though, is me. Deep down, behind my Judgy Judgerson attitude, especially since I am no great rider myself, I am secretly, inexplicably, ashamedly jealous. 

I look around the crowd to see if anyone else is reacting like I am reacting to this train wreck display. Not one. 

So I look again. 

And this time, I look hard at the chaos happening in the arena. And I listen. 

I hear the announcer tell their story - their heartbreaking, inspiring, historic story of strength, honor and hope. I listen intently to the details of two brothers - Frank and Leo Kuntz - giving their lives to preserve the future of these descendents of Sitting Bull’s war ponies. I hear the hooves pound an earthy rhythm that seeps into my very being. I hear it said that you don’t choose a Nokota, the horse chooses you - they are searching for their person. I hear the riders whoop happily to each other and to their horses. And at some point, some moment in time that feels vague yet is anchored with clarity in my mind, it all begins to flow in slow motion right before my eyes. 

Wild beauty. Friendships. Partners. Play. Joy. Trust. Love.  Horses and riders both.

The manes and tails are couriers of the North Dakota prairie wind. Their strong, feathered legs perform athletic feats, twisting and turning at the whims of their riders. They stand, still as stone, as their riders climb to their feet confidently, almost haughtily, onto their backs. Then take off like shots when their riders pop back down. Their spirit is palpable. They are doing a PERFECT job representing this breed and all of its most special qualities. I am ashamed at how quickly I judged. 

And now, I am in awe. It washes over me in a wave of emotion that tingles on my skin, then pounds in my heart, and finally … brings tears to my eyes.

Again, I look around to see if anyone else is reacting as I am. Not one. This moment is just for me. To do with as I see fit. So from that moment forward, I decided to learn and learn and learn about these horses, their story, their people. 

And so began my love affair. 

And so it continues today. 

Years later, I discovered that some of those wild riders were Frank Kuntz’s daughters. And never did I imagine at the time that I would one day be a part of their Nokota family. Two horses from their herd, Red Eagle and RainyDay, have found their person in my husband and me. I am blessed.

In Nokota Voices, I’ve transformed this memory into fictional form, which you will hopefully read for yourself someday. Maybe the Prairie Fire girls will light a flame in you!

To learn more and to order your copy of Nokota Voices, check out my website and BWL Author Page.

Here’s to good people doing good things. Enjoy the ride!

This month I'd like to honor the memory of my friend Holiday who was the inspiration for Paisley Noon's (of Nokota Voices) knight in shining armor. Journey.

From his beacon star, to his impossible endurance, my Missouri Fox Trotter was as much a character in real life as he continues to be at Forever Fields farm. 

Here's a list of things to know about Holiday. And you can get to know him even better as Journey in Nokota Voices.

1. He was afraid of cows and propane tanks.

2. He never met a treat he didn't like.

3. He had delicate legs.

4. He purred.

5. He fell asleep while being groomed.

6. He could be brave, but water, tree stumps and big rocks were scary.

7. His trot made my butt wiggle.

8. His canter felt like a rocking chair.

9. He came to me superbly trained.

10. He led without a rope or halter.

11. He gave me many a white-knuckle ride.

12. He was a very good patient - took his medicine like a champ.

13. He was oh so sensitive and could calm other horses down.

14. He was a good teacher.

15. I could count on him.

I wonder how long it will take for me not to think of him every. Single Day.

(My Tribute)

 He waited…

… for the warm spring sun to thaw the earth.

… to decide that the new kid would be good enough for me.

… to make sure he’d taught me everything, especially the impossible lesson.

After 31 beautiful years (18 as my trail partner), 

Holiday journeyed to the Rainbow Bridge.

I told him I wouldn’t be able to meet him there for quite some time, 

but if we could go for a trail ride when I do, 

well …

that would be lovely.

Character Inspiration #1: PRAIRIE by Julie Christen

This month I'll share a bit about my little buddy who was 100% the inspiration for Paisley Noon's (of Nokota Voices) faithful, no-nonsense, task master sidekick. Prairie. 

 If you've ever really loved a dog before, you know how they become a part of your family. Not LIKE a part of your family, but a true, human-in-fur, there-when-you-need-them, knows-you-better-than-you-know-yourself, oh-if-only-they-could-talk PART of your family.

That was what this little border collie mix was to me. In my real world, over 13 years ago, I named her Paisley. The human character of Nokota Voices came second. Though the human character was named after her, I chose to create Paisley Noon's sidekick dog as an embodiment of my real-world dog but gave her a fictitious name - Prairie. Confused? It's okay. Just know, I was surrounded with inspiration.

In truth, this fun little girl had lots of names that defined her character better than anything.

She had names like: Judgie McJudgerson, Girl Scout, Emergency Nurse Paisley, Tattletale, Fun-Wrecker, and Hamburglar (Her grumbly sound effect was uncanny!). Border collies do love to keep everyone and everything safe and in line. And they are quite owly about it if they can't.

We called her Molasses when she would walk through imaginary sludge to the tune of some funeral dirge into the kennel for the work day. There, she would have to co-exist with the other mouth-breathing Neanderthals (a dopey pointer and an oblivious chocolate lab).

But she also went by names like: Pretty Princess, Sweet Face, and Little Buddy. Though she wasn't everyone's cup-o-tea, with that endless border collie energy and too-smart-for-her-own-good attitude, she was perfect to me. We got each other.

Here's to my girl. She will live on in Forever Fields.

And in my heart.

To meet her, so she can become a part of your family, 

you can order a copy of Nokota Voices by going to 

https://bookswelove.net/christen-julie/ 

Carrots!

Nokota Voices now available! 

To order yours today, go to https://bookswelove.net/christen-julie/

    Are you ready to take a trip to the wide open spaces of North Dakota with Paisley Noon, her faithful dog Prairie, her beloved horses Journey and Boss Girl, and a one-eyed crimp-eared three-legged stowaway barn cat? Are you ready to become a part of an eclectic, quirky family with a can-do attitude and a vision of perpetual hope? If so … Forever Fields Farm awaits your arrival with open arms!

Here are a few tidbits from the first chapter of Nokota Voices.

    Hike up your big girl panties and quit the waterworks, said my dead grandma as I fiddled with a tattered photo of her daughter. My mother’s black hair swirled in the wind; she sat bareback on a wild-eyed buckskin colt in front of a house I didn’t recognize. A carved sign next to her showed a diamond shape with a large letter F in the center and two smaller Fs on either side. I wondered if she heard the voices too, wherever she was. Did they tug at her until she finally followed?

    It’s time, Gram nudged.

    Though Gram had been dead for five years, her voice prodded me from the edge of my bed. I reached for my suitcase and stuffed the picture of Mother into my pocket. I took a deep breath and stepped toward the door. My heart thumped in my throat as the wheels ricketed across the warped wood floor. I stopped to look one last time at the snapshots taped on my wall. Friends. Smiles. Boys. Group hugs. Cheeky kisses.

    Lies. All of it.

    I wasn’t like them. I never had been.

*    *    *

    Ernie meowed from the tops of the stalls and walked along. A carefree, three-legged daredevil. I followed beneath him next door to Boss Girl. She stood dozing in a corner, one hind leg bent, head hung low.

    “Hey, BG,” I whispered. The last thing she needed was getting jolted out of a perfectly good dream of the old days when she and Mom ran barrels or raced the wind in the clover field.

    As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the vague contours of her bony hips and swayed back. Age left its mark.

    My defiant voice from earlier that day echoed in my head. Over my dead body!

    Then Cindy’s sticky voice, It’s the humane thing to do. This coming from someone who’d never touched, much less owned, a horse in her life.

    I reminded myself again, I’m not like her.

    Then Dad, “I don’t see any other options. Unless you want to start paying the vet bills.”

    And me, “She’s only twenty-five! What kind of idiot puts down a horse that’s paid for herself ten times over in winnings just because she’s retired?”

    “Paisley Alberta Noon, that’s enough.” Dad had pulled out the middle name weapon.

    “Mom would never allow it.” I had no problem pulling out the Mom weapon.

    Silence.

    I blinked out of the memory. None of that mattered anymore. In fact, I was glad it happened. It was just the catalyst I needed to finally listen to the voices tugging at me to leave for the last year. Their whispers became clearer, yet I still couldn’t understand their words. And Gram’s had become unbearable. My choice was made.

*    *    *

    Experience has convinced me Oscar’s got a split personality. I never knew what kind of mood that Scottsdale would be in. Sometimes he’d turn over and purr like a kitten. Other times, he’d screech like a yeti. I cringed at the thought of the latter in the still night. In fact, I slid my clammy hand from the key in the ignition and leaned back for a nervous breath, to settle the whirligigs in my stomach.

    Then I saw Gram. On top of my duffle bag. The portrait, that is. Her eyes still as stone just watched me, waiting. She had been like that — always watching and waiting for me to make a decision for my obstinate little self. Prodding me on with some quip remark. In the picture the little curve at one corner of her mouth told me she was with me as I sat behind Oscar’s steering wheel all sweaty-palmed.

    That woman was my hero. I wanted so much to be like her.

    Prairie sat in the truck with a determined look she could only have gotten from being around me way too much. Glancing past her to the porch light, I wondered what kind of decision I was making this time.

    Then it came to me. Gram, though she’d been dead five years, would be with me. She would swish away any mess I got myself into. From behind the glass, the crinkle in her left eye winked. She got me. No matter how big of a brat I was. She knew I had to learn things my own way.

    I leaned forward and turned the key. Vvvrrrum hummmm.

    “Helloooo Kitten.”

    Prairie pant-smiled and let out a “whuff.” The ratty rope dangled over her canines.

    “I guess that means we are on our way.” Ghostly butterflies fluttered in my rib cage.

    As we inched down the driveway, gravel crunched beneath Oscar’s tires, and I said my silent goodbyes to the only home I’d ever known. I slowed to a stop at the mailbox that read “The Noon Family: 445 Aurora Way.” A sadness tensed my shoulders because I honestly could not remember the last time it had felt like a family lived at this address.

    It was time.

    Enough with the mush. Get on with it! Gram said.

    “See ya ‘round, suckers,” I sneered to my past.

    Oscar’s grimy headlights lit the way as I began my cruise north and west toward the plains of North Dakota.

  See you all soon!

Look for all the love lines in your life, as well as the ones you will read in Nokota Voices.

     When I stop   to think about it

      love lines surround me       every day. Appearing in 

unlikely places. They smack me in the face. Or go unnoticed. 

 All shapes and sizes. All intents and purposes. Soft and silent. 

      Laugh out loud or lamenting. Shy or certain.  

                       Quiet or clarion. Day in, day out.

                                   They all say love. 

If I listen.

From Nokota Voices:

  Hike up your big girl panties and quit the waterworks, said my dead grandma.

  Prairie’s patient, golden gaze said, “You are not alone.” 

 “Paisley, we try to live a simple life here. Sustain ourselves as best we can. 

 In the meantime, we attempt to do good things.” She looked at me square on. 

 “What are you good for?” (Aunt Bert)

From My Love:

   "Yes, Honey. I will build you an outhouse."

   "Thanks for not being a pain in the ass."

   "I'm not going anywhere."

From Me to My Love:

   A packed lunch every morning.  

   "Yes, Honey. Let's go to the hay auction, again."

   "Let me read to you."

From My Friends:

   "I miss you."

   Silence, together.

   Laughing 'til our faces hurt.

From My Pets:

   My little Paisley's amber eyes gazing up at me like I hung the moon.

   RainyDay's dark, soul-filling pools and snuffling, velvet muzzle.

   20 mini t-rex chickens running for joy straight to me, mobbing me for treats.

   "Purrr, prrr, prrrr ..."

Can you hear your love lines?

Here's to all the curmudgeons in my life, including the one you will meet in Nokota Voices coming in April.

To Curmudgeons by Julie Christen

I know a man who’s not what he seems.

On the outside, in fact, he looks downright mean.

His brow is all crinkled in the shape of a V.

His mouth is a grimace. He sure acts cranky.

Hands crammed in his pockets or crossed over his chest.

Stand-offish. Skeptical. Unimpressed.

Mad at the world? Just mad at you?

Mad about change and politics too.

A crabby old man, just mean to the bone.

Wishing that we would all leave him alone.

But …

Hidden in shadowy depths unseen

Lie stories of pain and places he’s been.

He loves with his whole heart. Mourns those he’s lost.

He’ll fight to the death for you - damn the cost.

His hands are gnarled, tender and strong

To pray, caress and work all day long.

Wisdom courses through his veins.

So much knowledge. Zero fame.

He’s been there, done that. Got the t-shirt and then some.

He’s a man with a story, not just a curmudgeon.

So next time you see him, maybe give him a chance 

To prove he’s much more than you see at first glance.

I was once told that you can always research the details - write what's in your heart. And that's what I did with Paisley Noon. I did the research (so much to the point I now own three of this rare breed), but mostly I used how they move me, deep down, in places I never knew existed in my soul.

    Their story is heart-breaking and uplifting all at once. Learning about how this special breed chooses its person, not the other way around, felt like a magical mystery I had to explore. Once I delved into the Nokota world, I found more than just facts about a type of horse. 

    I found the people behind them. 

    That is where the true heart of the story lies - in the people and the love they have and the passion they act upon daily to preserve the future of this breed. They are selfless. They are genuine. They are humble. They are reflections of the Nokota horse itself.

For more information about this historic breed, go to Kuntz Nokota Ranch.com.