After my freshman year of college, I spent a little over a year in a village that has a permanent population less than the maximum capacity of an average size restaurant.  There are less than a dozen streets and not a single traffic light to tell you when to slow down.  Nestled into a valley of the Badlands on the very edge of North Dakota, you might miss Medora even if you don’t blink when driving by.  The natural views left behind by prehistoric waters are so serene you’ll forget the rat race of life and take a deep breath.  The savory history of Medora, who was the wife of the Marquise responsible for finding and naming the town, Theodore Roosevelt, and the Badlands was revived by former Governor of ND, Harold Schafer, and still nourished today by the active non-profit organizations and residents that keep their roots planted in the gumbo that makes up the Burning Hills.  Together they have dedicated endless hours of hard work, if not their whole lives, to make their home the most popular destination in North Dakota.  It’s crazy to think that a simple town of a hundred and twenty people can host thousands of guests and seasonal employees from all over the world throughout the four months of summer, but Medora does just that every single year.
     My life as part of the village began with a seasonal contract which turned into a whole year of working and continuing school.  I was employed for four different companies in total and lived in three different homes that included a one-bedroom apartment tucked above the tourist information center on Main Street.  The bed that I slept in was forty-five feet straight across from the railroad tracks which trained me (pun obviously intended) to reimagine the meaning of being rocked to sleep.  The place was humble in my eyes, perhaps low quality to others, with one chair in the living room and a dryer that caught on fire the first time I ever used it.  Above the light switch in the floor to ceiling wood paneled bathroom was a sticky note telling users how to flip it just right for the light to stay on: push in and to the left or else it’ll fall down leaving you in the dark.  The apartment was generously furnished with everything I could have needed: dishes, pots, a bed, a table with chairs, and enough floor space for a dozen people to sit on all at one time.  It was my temporary home and I loved it.
     So, as winter approached the tourists left, and all that remained was a life in Medora that provided a glimpse into the world I imagine my grandparents growing up in.  The bygone era of waving to passing vehicles, baking cookies and sharing them with the ladies at the post office, driving thirty miles into town on Sunday to attend Church and get groceries at the store.  It was a season that allowed me to sit down and taste my coffee before going to work rather than just drinking it along the way.  The springtime sun not only took the bite of winter’s bitter cold away but was followed closely by summer and the new wave of campers, tour bus groups, and adventurers of all kinds.  Those hot days were never long enough for all the work to be done or, more importantly, expeditions to be undertaken.  Summer was a time where coffee became a morning after thought and needed instead as an evening necessity to power through the star gazing.  No matter the season though, the colleagues I worked with tended to become friends; and even some became family.
     On a rare occasion during my second summer I had an entire day off, so I decided that I was going to try my hand at baking cupcakes.  I found a recipe online for chocolate cupcakes and began an unexpectedly wild journey that proves even strong, independent women need a little help from their friends.  I had a little bit of flour, some sugar, and an adequate amount of butter at home, but I soon realized that I didn’t have cocoa.  That was no problem because what I did have was leftover cubes of almond bark from Christmas and a cheese grater.  Naturally I shredded the six-month-old chocolate bar into a measuring cup and called it good enough.  I then realized that I was also missing eggs, a muffin tin, liners, and vanilla.  I admit, at this point most people would have found something else to enjoy, but I had already put so much work into the project that quitting was not an option!  
     I called my colleague and asked if I could borrow some of his ingredients.  I drove across the tracks to his house, and when I arrived he reported that he didn’t have any eggs to offer nor cupcake liners, so I took his baking tin and was at least one step closer to fresh cupcakes.
     Lacking a grocery store, I figured I would be able to pick up a carton of eggs at the gas station.  In the five blocks between the tracks and the gas station I passed by one of my old supervisors.  I hadn’t seen her for a few days, so I slowed my speed like they would have in the good ole’ days and rolled down my automatic window to see how things were going for her.  She was heading home early for the day, and I decided to ask if she maybe had two eggs at home that she would be willing to sacrifice.
     “Sure, Freddie-Leigh, I can grab you some eggs!”, she laughed back to me from her pickup.  I pulled my car over and told her I would wait there until she got back.  While I was waiting, another gal that I had worked with in the past was walking by and I, still needing liners, went out on a limb and asked what the chances of her having an extra few lying around were. 
     Thanks to the hustle of summer she reported back quickly between breaths while still walking along, “I’m not on my way home right now, but if you go in my back door and look in the cabinet to the left of the microwave, there might be an opened package with some liners!”
     I jumped out of my car and rushed a block down the street straight into her unlocked kitchen.  She was right!  There was an opened package with leftover liners!  I clutched them victoriously and rushed back to my car arriving just in time to meet my egg delivery.  Finally, I had everything I needed to finish the batter. 
     At least I thought I had everything until I got home and remembered I was still missing vanilla.  I measured out two teaspoons of leftover French Vanilla coffee from the morning, while trying to make three cups of flour stretch into four cups.  I made up for the shortage by pretending stale saltine crackers that I crushed up in a Ziploc bag could pass as flour.  It really gave the cupcakes a revolutionary “salty afternoon pick-me-up” profile that I wasn’t really going for.
     Now, my kitchen, reflecting the humility of the entire apartment, was small and lacking counterspace.  Therefore, the cupcakes came out of the oven and took their place on top of the kitchen table, all four chairs, the window sills, my trash bin, and eventually the dryer that previously caught on fire.  Seeing all those tiny cakes chilling throughout my place made me feel accomplished; but I still needed to make some kind of frosting.
     I threw half a package of Oreo cookies from an employee picnic into a blender I had been borrowing from a friend.  I then heated the demolished cookies in a sauce pan with a little more of the leftover coffee and the remaining almond bark.  When it melted into a gooey mess I poured it into a mixing bowl and whipped in powdered sugar until it became as fluffy as Oreos, coffee, Christmas chocolate and powdered sugar can be.  With a broken spatula given to me as a gift from the Easter Bunny, I spread my concoction proudly on top of my cupcakes. 
​     I started this quest with a double batch of will and a lot less way, but you know what?  That’s exactly when life takes a village. - The product of which was a few dozen cupcakes that, after eating one, not even the post office ladies wanted a second.

    Anyone can agree that moving has its own combination of petty struggles and simple joys.  For example when you finally win hide-and-seak against your favorite pair of socks and can’t help but snapchat it to everyone; or when the bottom of a box decides to bust open half way up three flights of stairs and still you snapchat it to all your friends.  Contrary to my lack of snapchats, I did move to Bismarck a few weeks ago and to complain would be nothing less than irrational!
​     Classes have started and they are not what I expected in the least.  It’s as if I was expecting to be served little educational horderves, but when I arrived I realized it was actually an entire feast of information that needed to be eaten in half the time I would have prefered.  Does that make sense?  I guess what I’m trying to say is that there is a ton of content in such a small amount of time that I feel a little overwhelmed, but word on the street is that’s just how it goes in Paramedic school.
     I started working the night shift at a facility for humans who struggle to live on their own.  Although I have a lot to learn about working in such an environment as that, the experience has been delightful so far.  The schedule has been an adjustment for sure!  Anyone who knows me knows that I am an early to bed early to rise type of gal, but I’d say I’m adapting the best I can.
     I have to thank the Lord for all He has provided as far as availability to worship and serve Him here in the community.  It is a blessing to be so overwhelmed with school, work, and moving further from home, but at the same time have unquestionable peace that can only come from Jesus.  I am continually reminded by the news and social media that there is so much going wrong here in North Dakota and around the globe, but the same Jesus who brought peace to my tiny life brings peace to the whole world too!
     I don’t have too much else to share for right now, but I want to thank you for visiting Casual Leigh and reading this post!  Take it easy out there friends, and call me anytime!  
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 ​     Names are important.  To be identified as yourself includes being tagged with a name.  The same names are used over and over again, but a recycled name becomes original because the human it belongs to is original.  One of a kind.  The person and the name are linked to one another by default, but gain reputation with time.  So what does a person do when they are unsure of who they are?
     As a kid I always found myself justifying my name, and having to convince people that indeed my first name was for real Freddie-Leigh, but that does not mean my mother “must have really hated me” or that my parents were “disappointed I came out a girl”.  In fact, I’m almost certain that my mother loved me very much before she passed away, and the only thing even slightly disappointing about not being born a boy is the notion that people would actually suggest it as a reasonable reason for my parents naming me Freddie!  Whoa!  I got a little passionate there, but stick with me for a moment.  Imagine someone genuinely asking you if your parents were disappointed because of the way you were born, and because of that disappointment named you something as dreadful as whatever your name is.  It’s absurd!  My name is awesome.  Well, actually my name is Freddie-Leigh, but you understand.  *tries to wink casualeigh at readers*
     My name fits me in a way that I can’t quite describe without sounding proud of who I am, and in a world that tells me to pick out the things I don’t like about myself and then buy something from the store to cover it up, I don’t think it’s too terrible of an idea to be proud of the human being I was made to be.  My name and my personality are like peas and carrots at a truck stop cafe.  They go together seven days a week, and are even better with some pepper!  You know what I mean?  I like being called Freddie-Leigh, or whatever else you want to call me, and I like who Freddie-Leigh is becoming, but it hasn’t always been that way.
     So what does a person do when they are unsure of who they are?  I tried to change my name.  When I was finishing high school and moving to college, I didn’t really like myself all that much.  Don’t get me wrong, there was a lot about me that I loved, but there were small parts of my past that I wanted to leave behind and never see again.  I had a bad habit of pretending everything was okay when it obviously wasn’t, and I was hardly ever honest about what was going on in my heart.  I didn’t deal with feelings, and I probably ate too much ice cream or something.  So, the problem solver inside of me decided it’d be best to try to change my name.
     I had liked the idea of having a somewhat normal name, and maybe start being a somewhat normal person. (That doesn’t sound like me, but keep reading)  I asked people to call me Leigh in hopes that they would recognize the change that was going on inside of me as I began to grow up.  I wanted people to see the difference in who I was.  Being called Leigh also eliminates some of the explaining and justifying of my name, and cuts back on ignorant comments about visiting people in their dreams on Friday the thirteenth, but to no surprise it does not change who I am!  
     Can you believe it?  All that backstory, and the conclusion is defeat!  However, among the failure of my endeavor there is victory.  For one, there is a large population of people who call me Leigh, not that I care either way at this point, but just wanted to point that out; and two, it is one more step in figuring out who I am in this crazy thing called life.  
     There's a lot I've discovered about myself, life, and what I believe to be true since trying to change my name however long ago that was, and I don't want to bore you with anymore details, but you should at least know that I'd like you to call me Freddie-Leigh, F-L, Fleigh, Leigh, Fredward, and anything else you can come up with; or even Fred for all I care because as much importance as a name can hold, it’s nothing compared to the human that it belongs to.