Amanda and the Snowmobile | February 8, 2023

I don’t know about you, but we have reached the point in the year when I have decided it’s spring. It’s spring. It’s spring even though this is North Dakota and last week we had thirty-below wind temperatures and there’s a ton of snow on the ground. Also, astronomers and humanity have determined spring doesn’t begin in the Northern Hemisphere until March. Still, the sunshine looks like spring (and I’m tired of wearing socks); therefore, it is spring, so sayeth I.

Since it is basically spring, it feels like there has been a large uptick in outdoor winter-based activities so that everyone can use their new cross-country skis before it’s time to pack them up in the garage (and, in the case of my family, forget about them forever). Last week, Kyle stood at the kitchen window, coffee cup in hand, staring at a few small drifts of snow that had blown onto our backyard rink. The temperature was roughly -15.

“If we don’t clear off the rink by Sunday, there won’t be any more skating this year,” he said, and sniffed.

In addition to mourning the future loss of his beloved rink (note: last year he took it down in May), Kyle has become hot and bothered with the idea that summer is just around the corner and he only got to snowmobile once this winter – at Christmastime, when we were up in Saskatchewan at his dad’s house.

Kyle comes from an outdoorsy family. Even if you set aside the fact that his dad is a third-generation farmer and my limited understanding of farming families is that the #1 rule is that you must be in the process of going outside or be actually outside for 90% of your waking hours (the #2 rule is that you must have at least one story that starts out, “We were digging/standing around this hole when…”), they are still the type of family that does things outdoors for fun. If we go back to the snowmobiling thing, for example, my father-in-law likes to go on multi-day snowmobile trips with his buddies, which are like road trips but on a sled (and not on the road).

My family, on the other hand, is indoorsy. Even when we do things outside, the goal of the activity is to get back inside – like, if we go hiking, we need to be back by a set time because we have a lunch reservation. I met Kyle in December 2004 and we were engaged by April 2005, which meant there was about a four-month period where I fought hard against my natural instincts so as to seem “cool” and “fun” and “basically a different person.” Since part of that dating period happened, coincidentally, in this pre-spring timeline we are in now, I took part in the aforementioned activity of snowmobiling, and I’m going to tell you about that now.

With all that “coolness” and “funness” abounding, Kyle and I got very serious very quickly, and decided we’d better take a trip up to Canada so I could meet his brothers before we surprised them with an engagement.

“Pack your winter gear!” Kyle told me. “We can spend Saturday snowmobiling!”

“Awesome!” I replied, probably truthfully because I was, then, a different person.

Saturday rolled around. We had breakfast, and I made a big show about putting on long underwear, sweats, snowpants, two pairs of socks, boots, and jacket. Kyle topped off the outfit with a snowmobile helmet.

“You’re legit!” He told me.

“Sure am!” I said, legitly.

“Where are you going?” Kyle’s mom asked.

“Just around,” Kyle said – a phrase which I, his wife of 17 years, now knows means “Somewhere that will take much longer than anyone but Kyle has anticipated and will definitely go over a meal hour.”

We got on the snowmobiles. Kyle offered me some very in-depth instruction which included, “This is the gas” and “This is the brake,” and then pointed in the direction of a snowy field across from the house. He gave me a thumbs up, and I gave him a thumbs up, and we were off.

Or, rather, Kyle was off because the normal me came out and realized I was 1) outside, 2) operating a motor vehicle, and 3) didn’t know the plan for lunch. Still, if I was going to potentially marry into this outdoorsy family I figured I should make an effort to be amazing at #1 and #2, and assumed my future-future husband would have some kind of wonderful picnic planned at a secret destination. I gently turned the throttle(?) and the snowmobile shot off into the sunshine. And by “shot off,” I mean crawled along at about fifteen kilometers per hour.

Kyle realized I was moving at basically a walking pace, and so he slowed down. It took either five minutes or 300 hours for me to reach him. He gave me a thumbs up, and I gave him a thumbs up, although my thumb was already cold. He took that gesture to mean, “I’m doing so great, let’s go MUCH MUCH faster.” He sped up to 30 kph, and then 50 – and I, for reasons unknown to me even now, did the same.

You’ll be surprised to hear that snowmobiles ride on the snow. You’ll also be surprised to hear that when you ride a snowmobile (or sled, or basically anything) quickly through the snow, the snow flies up at your body and face. And you’ll be REALLY surprised to know that after another five minutes or 300 hours of being showered with snow in the outdoors without a lunch reservation in sight, I turned back into my normal, non-cool self.

We were somewhere in the middle of a (different) field when I shut off my snowmobile. Kyle flipped around.

“You okay?” He asked.

“I’d like a break,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. He took my picture.

“Ready?” He asked.

“No,” I said. “More of a break.”

“Okay,” he said, and looked around into what could be described as an unending winter abyss. I sniffed, sad that I was going to have to break up with this great guy because I couldn’t be the type of person who liked having snow pelted at my face.

But then, a miracle happened.

“The Shack is nearby,” Kyle said. “Do you want to have lunch?”

The Shack was (and is, assuming it’s still there) a little one-room house in the middle of a copse of trees for snowmobilers to rest between rides. It had a little bench, a little fireplace, and a little table where Kyle set down the cooler he had packed without my knowledge. In it was a pack of hot dogs.

“Are you having fun?” Kyle asked me.

“Yes,” I said, because I loved hot dogs and the indoors of things.

“Do you want to go back home after this?”

“Yes please,” I said.

“No problem,” Kyle said, because he loved me.

Eighteen years later, I haven’t gotten back on the proverbial horse. I have, however, become mildly more outdoorsy, to the point that I went on a five-minute ride on my father-in-law’s fancy new Ranger…before making Kyle turn around so I could get ready for lunch.

The photo above is a montage of our snowmobile trip. Look how outdoorsy I am!

Minot’s JJ Franks – a seventh grader, by the way – is $10,000 richer after making a lay-up, free throw, three-point shot, and half-court shot at Bishop Ryan. (KFYR TV) (Today Show)

Team North Dakota is headed to the ice sculpting nationals. (Valley News Live)

Emma Buee is the first female wrestler from Des Lacs-Burlington to sign a college commitment (she’s going to Augsburg University). (KFYR TV)

The Native American Development Center in Bismarck is now hosting youth drum circles in order to connect students with the music and culture of their elders. (KFYR TV)

TrainND is looking to “kill” people with kindness in order to fund scholarships for CDL drivers, crane operators, and other technical services. (Williston Herald)

A neighborhood in Bismarck came together to build one centralized ODR. (KFYR TV)

Taking someone fishing could net you an ice house. (KFYR TV)

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Profiles in Profile: Kyle Kosior Live | February 1, 2023

We are now in the thick, THE THICK, of the winter hockey season. Between our eleven-year-old’s travel team, our seven-year-old’s league and fun skates, and Kyle’s job with the hockey agency, we spend so much time at various rinks that I’m thinking about getting an Airstream and rolling it from parking lot to parking lot so that I can take my ~~pants~~ shoes off between games.

While we spend the bulk of our non-work waking hours at the rink – a couple of Sundays ago, Kyle was there from 6:30am to 8:00pm and I was there from 8:00am on because I am the suckier parent – we don’t actually spend any time together. One kid is always in the locker room or on the ice, the other is running around with his friends or at the concession stand, and Kyle is as far away from me as physically possible without having to actually leave the building.

Kyle likes to watch hockey. He likes to WATCH it. He does not like to chit-chat about post-game lunch, or browse the wares at the concession stand, or hold my coffee while I go outside to the car to take my ~~pants~~ shoes off. He likes to WATCH. HOCKEY. He likes to WATCH IT.

He also wants to remain married to me. He wants to REMAIN MARRIED. Because he wants to remain married to me, he cannot say, “Amanda, shut your piehole about the meltiness of the cheese at the concession stand and watch frickin’ hockey,” and so, instead, Kyle has found a way to avoid me by streaming the games on Facebook Live for his twenty-person throng of adoring fans.

He streamed for the first time last year. We were in Devils Lake, and he stood at the back of the bleachers on the side of the rink opposite from me and used the camera on his phone to follow the play.

“I’m doing this for your dad,” he told me. “He wanted to see the game.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

He streamed again the next day in Grand Forks…at a place with a Rink Cam that could be accessed online. This time, he called out penalties and goals and player names.

“Your dad can’t hear the sound on the Rink Cam,” he said. “It’s for your dad.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

The following weekend, Kyle started doing play-by-play for his audience of three: my dad, and two grandmas who didn’t want to drive in the cold. He also added in some light color, notably by proclaiming that the stream was sponsored (it was not) by a business owned by one of our friends: Great Plains Plumbing and Heating.

“This game brought to you by Great Plains Plumbing and Heating,” he said into his phone. “Great Plains Plumbing and Heating: We’re coming in hot!” (That is not their tagline.)

Both my dad and Kyle thought he was very funny.

A few days later, my dad presented Kyle with two lavalier microphones that plugged into his phone and clipped onto jacket lapels. A month after that – now with ten-plus grandmas and grandpas on the stream who tuned in primarily to hear their grandchild’s names and secondarily for Kyle’s commentary (“We’re broadcasting live from Minot; so close to Canada you can smell the taxes”) – the other parents gave him a t-shirt with “NACHO AVERAGE COMMENTATOR” written across the back. And, with that, Kyle became the self-proclaimed official gameday network of all of our sons’ hockey teams in perpetuity.

Less than thirty days later, Kyle’s official status became a bit of a problem at the start of Eleven’s spring hockey season because another dad on the team (a different group than the winter season) was ALSO the official gameday network of his own sons’ hockey teams. Fortunately, that dad had a nicer phone and Kyle had a nicer microphone setup, so they joined forces with the other dad on play-by-play and camera work and Kyle on color and microphone ownership. His Emmy-nominated line of the season was, “Looks like he’s getting that penalty for, um…reasons.” Great Plains Plumbing and Heating was, once again, an unwilling and unpaid sponsor.

Fast-forward to this winter season. Now a seasoned broadcaster, and the owner of a gimble thanks to a generous gift from another hockey family (while Kyle’s commentary is spot-on, his camera work leaves something to be desired – especially since he likes to WATCH HOCKEY and sometimes forgets that he’s holding a camera), Kyle’s production has been taken to the next level. For example, he has more unsigned sponsors, including Spicer Container and Salvage (“Spicer Container and Salvage: Get That Stuff Out of Here”) and North Dakota Nice (“North Dakota Nice: [Our street address]’s most popular blog, 2021”). He has added in a section called “Profiles in Profile,” in which he turns to whomever is seated nearest to him, points the camera on the side of their face, and asks what they think of the game (Spoiler: everyone thinks the boys are doing a good job).

Kyle also has taken to including guest announcers whenever possible – selected, like “Profiles in Profile,” based on proximity. As most of the parents have figured out that if you sit next to Kyle he’s going to hand you a mic, the majority of his co-commentators are children. Our own seven-year-old did the first period at a recent game, during which Kyle asked him how he expected the next hour to go.

“Well, it’s either going to go really, really good, or really, really bad,” Seven said.

“Hard to contradict that,” Kyle said in response.

Fortunately, Kyle’s demographic is almost entirely over 60 or under 8, so these guests do very well. In fact, one of the grandmas routinely asks for updates on her own granddaughter sitting in the stands.

Another one of those grandmas also suggested that Kyle stream her other grandson’s Peewee game.

“Haha,” Kyle said, but not in a real HAHA way, more like in a “Maybe” way, which made me a little nervous because we don’t really need any more rink time. I’m considering asking him to start a lawn dart league so I can at least sit outside (pants optional).

Last weekend, our son’s team played the other Grand Forks team at a tournament. It was quite the competition – for the dads – because pictured here is Kyle and his co-presenter (the dad mentioned above) having to call the game on two separate, competing streams. This is as close as I was allowed to get.

Bring yo’ kids’ best smiles; the North Dakota State College of Science Allied Dental Education Clinic is providing free dental work on February 10. (Wahpeton Daily News)

Cavalier’s Ava Robinson won the junior Beargrease as a 14-year-old and is now preparing for the John Beargrease Sled Dog Marathon. (Valley News Live)

Best of luck to Wyndmere’s McKinnlee Haberman, winner of the local 2023 Poetry Out Loud contest, who is now headed to the national competition. (Wahpeton Daily News)

For communities without a public library, there is now a book vending machine. (Hillsboro Banner)

The Fargo community came out to support a new supermarket, owned by a brother-sister duo who came to North Dakota after escaping Vietnam. (Fargo Forum)

I did not know this was a thing until now: congratulations to the winners of the Barnes County Wildlife Annual Coyote Calling Contest – the results of which (by number of coyotes called) are listed here. (Valley City Times Record)

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Goalie Mom, or a brief lesson in unclenching | December 7, 2022

When my eleven-year-old was around seven, he came home from hockey practice and announced he wanted to be a goalie.

“Great!” My husband said.

“Erm,” I said.

Here was my concern: hockey is a team sport, but the goalie’s mistakes stand alone. In fact, sometimes, the goalie shoulders the burden of the entire team’s mistakes; for example, we were recently at a University of North Dakota hockey game and UND scored on the opposing team’s net.

“Sieve, sieve, sieve, sieve!” the crowd shouted at the goalie while the goal replayed on the screen.

“See that,” Kyle (as a reminder, a hockey agent) said, pointing at one of the opposing defensemen. “He lost his man.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, even though I didn’t see because my knowledge of the intricacies of hockey stops at whether they serve hot dogs or brats at the concession stand, and also because it’s hard to keep your eye on everyone when there are ten people quickly chasing a small black disk on a big sheet of ice (and you’re busy eating a brat).

Anyways, I didn’t want my sweet, doe-eyed seven-year-old to face that negative attention, warranted or unwarranted.

“How about this,” I said. “You can play goalie for your Tuesday practices, and play out for your Thursday practices.”

“I want to play goalie all the time,” he said.

“Let’s start with Tuesdays,” I said.

That plan lasted exactly one week. On the second Thursday, I popped by the rink after work to pick up our toddler from Kyle and wave to the big boy. Shore ‘nough, I found him out on the ice in his borrowed goalie equipment.

“I thought we agreed on Tuesdays,” I said to Kyle.

“He wouldn’t get dressed otherwise,” Kyle said.

That first year, he let in approximately nine billion goals. I sat in the stands scrunched like an old dried-up sponge, searching his face behind his mask for an anticipated torrent of tears. They never came; instead, he’d dance along to the music that would play during the whistle.

He was still wearing borrowed equipment by his second season – “I don’t want to spend the money if he’s not going to stick with it,” The Killer of Joy told Kyle – although I had willingly agreed to pay for goalie lessons because I needed another thing to obsess over. Before every practice, lesson, or game I’d say to our son, “Have fun and do your best,” and then spend the next hours and days fretting over why he wasn’t paying enough attention, or getting his stick down fast enough, or saving every shot, or whether the other goalies were better and if they were and he was cut from the team would he have any friends anymore and should we just pack up and move right this second to a town in the middle of the desert that had never seen ice? WELL SHOULD WE?

Of course, I didn’t want to share these neuroses with an eight-year-old, so instead I’d tamp down every emotion into a tight ball and ask with the eyes of a psychopath, “Do you still like being a goalie, buddy?” And our son would always answer, “Yes!”

Once, I decided to mention a few of these anxieties to my best friend, who has neither children nor any interest in youth sports. After a loooooooong pause, she said, “I don’t think he needs goalie camp, I think you need Valium.”

Fast-forward another year, to when my parents met us for one of the final games of the season. I was sitting in the stands next to my mother, who was talking away about something when she stopped and asked, “Are you holding your breath?”

“Yes, I guess I am,” I said, exhaling quickly.

“Why?”

“I’m nervous,” I said.

“About this game?”

“About everything,” I said.

“Well, what is the point of THAT?” She asked, as if I had told her I owned more than one can opener. “It’s a game, Amanda. Games are meant to be fun. Is he having fun?”

She pointed to my son, who was zipping around in his net.

“Yes,” I said.

“If he doesn’t do well, are you going to go out there and play for him?” She asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then you can either have fun or not have fun, or be nervous or not be nervous, but none of those things are going to change the outcome of this game.” Then she went back to whatever she was talking about before, probably can openers.

I thought about what she said all summer, through baseball and road trips and goalie equipment shopping trips (because I’m not a total monster). I thought about it while we were packing up for his first fall hockey tournament, and while we were walking into the rink for the first game.

“Have fun, buddy,” I said, with a depth of emotion that can only come with total enlightenment – because that was what I was going to do: enjoy myself, and my son’s time in the sport.

“Okay,” my son said, not giving a crap about my spiritual growth at all.

Today, fifteen zillion games later, my younger son has also decided to become a goalie. At one of his first games, he got tired of playing, leaned his arm up on the back of his net, and just…let in goals for a while. Kyle and I were standing together and we burst out laughing (and then knocked on the glass to get him to pay attention). I may not have yet achieved total Zen, but at least I was having a good time.

“Man, I don’t know how you can stand to be a goalie parent,” one of the moms said to me after the game. “It would be too stressful for me.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” I told her.

The photo above was taken by photographer Jeff Wegge. My older son (then eight years old) got to play with the Little Chippers during the first intermission of the UND game. As you can see by his face, he had a REALLY good time.

Caitlynn Towe, Myah Johnson, and MacKenzie Olson of Rugby, Hazen, and Watford City, respectively, are on their way to New York to sing at Carnegie Hall. (KFYR TV)

A Bismarck non-profit called Badlands Search and Rescue now has a pup named Copper. (KFYR TV)

In North Dakota-adjacent news, Breckenridge’s Jared Hoechst was recently honored for saving an elderly couple from a burning vehicle. (KFYR TV)

In celebration of her birthday, West Fargo’s Gowri Pillai has donated 5,000 pounds of food – her 10^th year of gathering food donations. (KVRR)

This is a sweet little read about memories. (Minot Daily News)

Bismarck’s Christian and Wilfried Tanefeu had Thanksgiving dinner with their new friend, Kelly Ripa. (KFYR TV)

Minot’s Josh Duhamel – you may have heard of him – is the voice of the main character of a new video game. (Fargo Forum)

Let’s Be (Official) Pals!

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