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April 2, 2019 / themrtinney

My move to Nebraska (Wagons West!)

So, as many of you know, I moved from Virginia to Nebraska.  (For the two people looking surprised right now… we need to talk more often).  Here is a brief list of things I have learned, observed or discovered in the past 5.5 months spewed out in no particular order:

I am bad for Nebraska weather.  When I first arrived last October, people couldn’t hold back telling me how unusually mild the past several winters have been.  Like “snow?  what snow?” Turns to the guy next to him “Hey man – when did we last have a bad winter?  Wasn’t it 1897 or something?”  These people now assume that I am either an evil wizard or just plain bad luck since we have had 2,512 feet of snow, ice or random hail since I came here.  Sorry about that Nebraska…  possibly my bad?



I don’t understand proper racing.  Nothing is more exciting than bringing up Nascar with a group of fellow bearded men and being looked at like I came from another planet.  In Virginia, the rules were simple:  beard, whiskey, Nascar.  I now have conversations about Nascar with myself and anyone who doesn’t suddenly have someplace they are supposed to be immediately after I say “Nascar.”  That would be nobody.  Evidently, the core issue is all those left turns.  Here, real racing means going really straight really fast then suddenly stopping – if the car doesn’t blow-up.  I get it – I even started watching some straight racing on television, but I just kept feeling like they never made it to turn one and had to turn it off.

I’m having pop out of a sack with supper at 10am.  It isn’t Soda, it’s Pop.  You can buy it and they’ll put it in a sack because a bag is what you get under your eyes from sleep deprivation.  You can enjoy that Pop at 10am for Supper unless it’s 6pm Dinner and I have no idea where the hell Lunch went, but it’s missing.

Red is the only actual color here besides yellow corn.  I was a Nebraska Cornhusker fan before moving here.  My lovely bride, who is from here originally, always said that I am a foster-fan and it’s just not the same.  She was right.  I should have known this when early on in our marriage over 30 years ago I was nearly murdered for walking in front of an active Cornhusker game on the television.  Other early signs included random yelling that was probably heard in Nebraska from Virginia, a habit of never missing a minute of any game, and 5.7 million “Go Big Red” items purchased from 1985 to date.  I get it now.  Maybe I can go from foster-fan to adopted fan someday…
Until next time.

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