Each of us has a story, transcribed by miles on the soles of our boots and woven by years through the sinew of our hearts. Some of us get to share our stories with friends, commiserating over crossed paths. Others, like Brennen Leigh, are talented enough to weave an entire town’s worth of stories through anecdotes of its people. Her new album Prairie Love Letter lays testament to the sweet midwestern heddles serving the loom for common threads in many of our stories. “This is a collection of songs about my childhood home: the line between Western Minnesota and Eastern North Dakota,” Leigh says. “I’ve lived away for eighteen years and been homesick every one of them.”

“Don’t You Know I’m From Here” sets the tone of the album with solid country songwriting embraced by tastefully sparse bluegrass. This song sets in like the first crisp breath of clean air after stepping outside to shovel the walk on a bright day in January. A gut-punch take on the age-old adage that one can never truly go home again resonates with anybody who’s ever faced the alienation of not being recognized in their hometown. Think you’re big shit? Try leaving for five years. Better yet, try to get a job using the good-ole-boy network when you’ve been gone fifteen and don’t recognize a thing.

Brennen goes on to portray a transient, yet timeless view of a young person’s first taste of combined admiration, friendship, and perhaps lust in “The North Dakota Cowboy.” Delicate fiddle and mandolin juxtapose the description of unrequited sparks of sexual awakening, followed by an innocent chorus of vocals that invoke a teenage girl skipping or picking flowers. Like a Polaroid, Leigh captures the instant a young person felt a twinge of that unknown something. Admirably well-written, “The North Dakota Cowboy” marks the transition from school-girl crush to the fodder of fantasy for years to come. The song strides through time, this fellow having imprinted so deeply on her psyche that she looks for him every time she drives to the hub of the neighboring big city. Now old enough to smoke cigarettes and appreciate Gram Parsons, Brennen trills the same playful feminine chorus at the end of the song. This time, however, the listener can almost imagine the young adult version of our leading lady character smiling, knowing that the age gap no longer makes a difference.

The term “virga” is used to describe a beautiful streak of rain that evaporates before it can hit the ground – common in many of the western states and provinces of the north American prairies. All the way from New Mexico to Alberta and eastward, this phenomenon on the horizon hints that a welcome blast of cooler air, and possibly rain, is certain to follow. In Brennen’s, “I Love The Lonesome Prairie,” Kaitlyn Raitz’s performance on the cello brings to mind a McMurtry-level of loneliness. Images of native sideoats and big bluestem grasses, never having seen the plow, bend with the downburst of cool wind as the sun decides its descent. “If you’ve ever stood out on the lonesome prairie and watched a thunderstorm roll in, then you’ll see why I love the lonesome prairie.”

“There’s a ‘Yellow Cedar Waxwing' on the Juneberry bush” instantly warms you like the smell of your grandmother’s den. Similarly, if you’ve ever had your mom run you over with a hay wagon, duct taped your dad’s pinky finger back on ahead of a rain storm, or had to completely stand up to press a clutch in while your grandfather curses at you, then you’ll love “The John Deere H.” Even the passive agricultural hobby-maker, gentleman farmer, or well-humored tax exemption seeker with 40 acres should be able to lift high-praise for a song that extolls the heavenly scent of freshly swathed alfalfa. Somehow Brennen distills three generations of reverence for the very first tractor that ever “looked” like a John Deere in just over three minutes. The artist continues to convey the utmost admiration associated with this piece of equipment that was not only an economic staple, but was also an incredible source of pride for a rural family. This generation of tractor revolutionized the lives of our grandparents, cresting almost 8 mph. Through decreased need for young people to operate teams of live animals to cultivate crops, a multi-function tractor literally opened the door to college education for many. A sentimental homage to farm equipment isn’t reserved for Fourth-of-July parade antique collectors – anybody who has ever attended a land grant university, purchased a loaf of bread at a supermarket, or savored popcorn at a movie theater in comfy cotton hoodie can align with this song. “I’d give my right arm to be on that farm with The John Deere H again” is no understatement.

Speaking of no understatements, Brennen’s, “You ain’t laying no ‘Pipeline,’” made me instantly recall the strange combination of goosebumps and pride that I stumbled upon almost two years ago in Fort Smith, Arkansas. A two-night stand at a festival landed us some off time that Saturday morning. Free to roam the city before sound check, my laser-focused mission for Thai food was completely derailed by a pop-up art exhibition. What were these colorful, giant 3-D kites made out of tiny pieces of colorful canvas doing suspended in an otherwise empty store front? I recalled the news stories from the year before about Standing Rock Sioux Tribe protestors of the Dakota Access pipeline under the Missouri River. Then it hit me. These beautiful, teepee-shaped things hanging from the ceiling were fashioned from abandoned tents left at Standing Rock. The artist had gleaned and repurposed them to embody the protest, forever. To take it to people who weren’t there and didn’t believe the news. To say, “You ain’t laying no pipeline,” even though the protestors had been forced out, the environmental impact study rescinded, and tribal land rights had been violated. Brennen’s hard-driving song is an anthem for anybody who was ever born to care for a piece of land or fought to keep it.

Pete Finney’s charming pedal steel twang in “Elizabeth, Minnesota” makes you yearn to fill your plate with brisket and chuck wagon beans while singing along in Flying-W Wranglers fashion. Courtney Patton joins Brennen’s producer and long-time collaborator, Noel McKay, on harmony vocals to paint the scene in this Roy Rogers family photo album of a toe-tapper.

Is it too much to ask to see Brennen backed by a full band in bluegrass suits playing cowboy music? Whether you cinched up your pinto pal on the Chico Basin Ranch this year or just bought your first pair of Luccheses on South Lamar, you’ll want to tip your hat to Prairie Love Letter.

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