In Which the North Isn’t All That Different

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It’s June and it’s only 70 degrees out here. What’s up with that? I can sit outside. Also, I can breathe. My sinuses are not at all offended with whatever happens in the spring in Wisconsin.

Grits aren’t a thing. I should have anticipated that.  

And brown dirt. Genuine brown dirt. Not the red clay I’m used to scraping off my shoes at all times of the year. Brown dirt like what they show in storybooks. It’s real.

Everything is flat. Hills are next to nonexistent. There are some gentle slopes here, but for the most part everything is just flat. Pretty. And green. But flat.

And the dialect. The dialect up here is fascinating. “Eh.” So much “eh.” And the way they say “toast” and “oats” and “soda” and “Minnesota”, doing something to that long “o” that makes it sound like they’re saying it down one end of a cardboard tube.

But some things are exactly the same. Despite what Northerners and Southerners argue about, despite the differences in dialogue and food preferences, despite the age-old aggressions, both sides have hicks. Gun-toting, deer-hunting, ball cap-donning, camo-wearing country boys.

Landscapes change. People don’t. If anything, the folks up here are a hair friendlier. But then again, I’d be friendlier too if I didn’t spend my springtime sneezing.

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