Embracing Minnesota

Being a native of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula who’s now living in Minnesota, I’ve made it a priority to not forget where I come from, and this is no more evident than when you step into my house. U.P. coasters, calendars, hoodies, t-shirts, drawings, and various wall decorations can be seen everywhere. There are also several pasties in my freezer – which I keep forgetting to eat – and an “I 💗 Fulton" magnet is proudly affixed to my refrigerator. And that’s just what I own at the current moment. I’m always in the market for something new, with one of my main goals in life being to obtain some sort of U.P. night light that will help me watch out for those pesky monsters that only come out after the sun goes down.

Now, while embracing one’s roots is a good thing, I recently realized that my borderline-maniacal fixation with the U.P. may have been coming at the expense of assimilating into Minnesota culture. I mean, I’ve lived here for a half-dozen years and still say “camp” instead of “cabin,” and the words “hot dish,” “budge,” and “why do our kickers always blow it in the playoffs?” have not yet spilled out of my mouth.

And it goes well beyond adopting the vernacular, too. Despite living in the Twin Cities for quite some time, I’ve experienced very few of the things one would read about if they were planning a vacation here and wanted to soak up the local culture. For example, I have no urge to ever go to the Mall of America, with the reason being that I’d never be able to find my car afterwards, which would then force me to live there until my money ran out, at which point I’d either have to get a job at one of the department stores or try to make the desperate trek back home on foot. I also haven’t been to Valley Fair, as paying good money to let some mechanical abomination fling me around until I’m sick just isn’t my idea of a good time. And then there’s the Minnesota State Fair, a.k.a. the Great Minnesota Get-Together, which I typically avoid like the plague. I guess sweating profusely in the hot sun while surrounded by thousands of other people sounds slightly stressful to me.

Now, I fully realize that my excuses for avoiding these activities do nothing more than paint me as a crotchety old man who doesn’t ever want to leave his house, but, as a very wise cartoon character once said, “I yam what I yam!” Still, upon realizing that for the last six years I’d basically been rejecting all things Minnesotan, I knew I had to do something to show my current home a little respect. I mean, it’s a great state, and living here has allowed me to experience some truly wonderful things, such as:

• Clouds of mosquitoes that could probably carry away a cow if they ever coordinated their efforts
• Flocks (or gaggles, or hordes, or murders) of aggressive geese who can occasionally cause me to fear for my life
• Hot summer days that cause the freeways to buckle, creating jumps you usually only see in the Dukes of Hazzard
• Icy winter days where the wind has more control over your car than you

Now, before any of you Minnesotans out there decide to form a mob and throw rocks at my house, I realize that living in the U.P. is no picnic, either. I mean, where else can you see snowmen during a normal winter’s day and legitimately wonder if there might be an actual person underneath?

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. What could I do to embrace Minnesota that didn’t involve going somewhere with lots of other people? Should I start saying “Uff-da,” or perhaps refer to Duck Duck Goose as “Duck Duck Gray Duck?" No, that’d be too forced.

Maybe I could fully adopt the hockey culture by busting out my skates and honestly trying to get involved in the game? Nah, it’d be too embarrassing to have 5-year-olds skating circles around me and potentially spraying me in the face with snow.

Then it hit me. I’d break my own personal rule of only owning black Adidas hats and buy one featuring the Minnesota North Stars! I mean, for a guy to violate his own hard-and-fast wardrobe rules would go a long way in showing he's truly embracing living in the area, right? Plus, I’ve always secretly wanted to own a North Stars hat, for the following reasons:

• It’s a great team name.
• The logo is simple, yet classy.
• Since they no longer, technically, exist, I could wear it and still not be accused of rooting against the Red Wings.

So the decision was made, and I soon found myself in Goldy’s Locker Room in the Ridgedale mall, surrounded by apparel for what seemed to be a thousand Minnesota sports teams. This in itself was quite overwhelming, and I kept waiting for some of my grade school friends from Michigan to materialize out of thin air and beat me up for even stepping foot into the place. Still, it was part of the deal I’d made with myself, and so I forced myself to look around until I found the hat I wanted: Black with a logo on the front. Simple and classy.

On my way home I stopped by the grocery store for the express reason of testing out my new hat. As I wandered through the aisles, I half-expected to start getting random high-fives from strangers, as if by putting on the hat I’d be instantly accepted into some secret society of Minnesota sports fans, but things went about the same as usual. However, it was a big step for me nonetheless, and I knew I’d made the right decision.

Since then I’ve only worn the hat a few times, as it’s still a little weird to be walking around supporting a non-Michigan team. However, I’m hoping to get it into a regular rotation with the Adidas hats soon, and if you ever see me out and about with it, realize that I’m doing my very best to integrate into the state I now call home. However, for the record, don’t expect me to ever wear it when I head back to the U.P. for a visit. I still think I might get beaten up.

Table For One

It had been a long drive to the rough-and-tumble town of Buffalo, Wyoming, and I was hungry. I saw several dining possibilities as I rolled down the main street, all of them steakhouses. I smiled. The cowboy spirit was alive and well here, and with that would come many opportunities for a good meal.

Wanting to cover all of my bases, I did some exploring, and soon I happened upon a rustic looking restaurant that just seemed right. Call it a gut feeling. With my mind made up, I parked the car and made my way over. My spirits were further bolstered when I discovered that I had to enter said restaurant via a set of batwing doors, after having navigated through an adjacent saloon. I smiled again. Any place attached to a saloon was bound to serve up large platters of hearty food! Heck, maybe I’d even run into a bar fight on my way out, something right out of the Dukes of Hazzard! What a great place!

Except then I saw that the hostess who greeted me was holding a menu whose contents were easily contained on a single side of a piece of paper. Uh-oh.

Looking around, I saw that I was awash in a sea of fancy drapes, napkins, and tablecloths. Double uh-oh. Nearly every fiber of my being told me to turn right around, but it was too late. Being rude was simply not an option.

Politely ignoring the wild look of fear in my eyes, the hostess led me to the far room – which was empty – and deposited me into a solitary corner. She then informed me that she’d return in a moment to light my candle.

I looked down. Yup. There was a single candle resting elegantly on my table. Triple uh-oh.

Perusing the menu, I saw that I had three main options to choose from, each of which was priced at a tidy, whole dollar amount. Management, it seemed, felt no need to try and play physiological games by charging something like $9.99 or $19.99. Nope, this place was far too sophisticated for something as tacky as decimal points.

After briefly debating crashing through a nearby window and making a break for it, I ended up ordering the chicken-something-fancy, nestled in a bed of something-else-quite-fancy, garnished with something-else-really-fancy.  (I was tempted to go with the filet mignon-something-fancy, but I wasn’t quite prepared to sell a kidney to help and finance it.)

As I passed the time waiting for my meal by watching my candle flicker, people began to stream in. Apparently, I was the beginning of the dinner rush. My seat was facing the afore-mentioned window, and so I couldn’t see any of the new patrons, but on multiple occasions I heard spoken some variation of the following: “Oh, this is so romantic!”

Feeling more out of place by the moment, I quickly began to devise a backstory, just in case somebody asked why I was there alone. It went like this:

Her name was Violet, and her eyes sparkled like the stars in the darkest of night skies. Upon first seeing her on the busy streets of Buffalo several years before, I’d been instantly in love. We’d met by accident, or so she'd always thought. I'd had to make several attempts to accidentally bump into her in the crowd before I finally got it right. The next week was a whirlwind of blossoming romance like I’d never experienced, and I soon found myself hoping I’d finally found the happily-ever-after that I’d become convinced was forever going to elude me. But like a candle in the wind it was suddenly over, and she said good-bye to me one night in this very restaurant, at the same table I was sitting at right now. She said she didn’t want to go, that she loved me, but also that she had no choice, driven by circumstances far too complicated to even begin to explain. We both cried, and then she slipped out into the night, leaving a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be. And so, every year on the anniversary of her leaving, I return to this same restaurant and table, hoping that she’ll be here waiting for me, having finally made peace with whatever demons had chased her away.

Or something like that.

I continued to massage my back story – playing with inventing a hand-written letter smelling faintly of her perfume that I could carry around in my jacket – until my food finally arrived. It was exactly what I expected. While tasting excellent (you can never go wrong ordering chicken-something-fancy) I easily could have eaten three times the amount. In fact, by the time I’d taken my last bite I was pretty sure I was hungrier than when I’d arrived.

By now the room was crowded and loud with conversation, and I was itching to make my departure. Seeing my empty plate, the waitress mercifully dropped off my bill, along with some sort of fancy, cinnamon stick thing. I began to sweat. I had no idea how to eat it. Did I suck on it like a candy cane? Break it into smaller pieces with my fingers? Cut it with a fork and knife like a gentleman? In the end I went with option four, which was to shove it into my pocket when nobody was looking, with the intention of doing further analysis at a safer time.

Trying not to look too eager, I arose from my table, crossed the busy room, and paid my bill. I then pushed my way through the batwing doors back into the saloon, where a brawl had unfortunately not yet broken out. This is when I saw the sign stating that a traditional menu was being served there.

Of course if was.

As I made my way back to the car I had to hunch my shoulders against a late-afternoon rain shower, but I didn’t care. I was free! And, unsurprisingly, still quite hungry. Making a mental note to hit up a grocery store, I took one last look back at the restaurant and shook my head.

Time, however, allows for new perspectives to spring forth, and in the weeks since I’ve decided that maybe I should go back and give it another chance. Perhaps I was too hasty in my judgment, too quick with my scrutiny. So maybe in about a year. After all, Violet might be there waiting for me, hoping that I’ll push through those batwing doors, sweep her off her feet, and take her away. As far-fetched as it sounds, I can never allow myself to lose hope, and until then I’ll keep her letter tucked away in the pocket of my jacket, letting the faint smell of her perfume serve as a reminder of the love we once shared, the love that I hope can someday be rekindled into a roaring fire of everlasting passion.

Or something like that.