I was raised in a small town in Northeastern Wyoming where every local character was our neighbor and the coyote's song tucked us in at night. 

It was a simple way of living back then. As a family we spent our days together, below the Black Hills, reveling in the buffalo clouds that belonged to the endless, western skies. The land was rough and often times unforgiving. Yet, despite its raw edges and mysterious demeanor, it was home. 

It was here that my dad took me out on a date every Sunday evening (just the two of us) to The Howdy Drive-In - an eclectic, mom and pop eatery, just off the highway, known for soft serve ice cream and deep conversation. 

At roughly 5:30pm, we piled into the run-down corner booth, rested our elbows on the countertop and watched the world pass by.

We were one of the regulars. My dad and I. Which felt like royalty in the country. 

Every Sunday he ordered a cheeseburger with extra pickles cooked "just long enough to where she was almost still mooing on the plate". As for me... I stuck to what I knew: a glass of chocolate milk and a grilled cheese with the crust cut off. 

You see, to me The Howdy was heaven. A consistent sanctuary (all dolled up in dusty, diner aesthetics) where good folks could just come to be. Without fixing or fighting or trying to be something they're not. 

And I hope this newsletter feels kinda like that.

A place where even outlaws can be regulars. Somewhere you can burn, bloom, learn and become - all on your own terms. 

Now I can't promise that I'll cure your copy woes or inspire your western whims, but you can count on me to always cut the crust off.

 the howdy.

xx lady folk

The Howdy.

how it started: