Take advantage of those times when something inside just gets you going

So I grew up in Northern Minnesota where everyone except for me talked like a Canadian. I never caught on. Then I went to college for four and a half years and went home for Christmas only to find my ears and voice have been specially synchronized to pick up on the accent I never had. It took me a couple days after returning to Utah to quite saying things like, "Leht's go oat forah'Dairy Queen dohn't yuh noh, weeth a liddle bidof sugar ahn top. Eh?"

I just might break into song right about now. I feel a little reminiscing coming on, for you see my all time favorite Minnesota tradition is to sing the national anthem as such:

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof to the night that our fl-AY-g was still there." It is more easily enjoyed when sung by a teeny-bopper country fan in a denim mini skirt and winter boo-ah-ts at a hockey game where at least one fan is sent to the emergency room with minor abrasions to the skull-nothing serious really.

I always wanted to play hockey. Well, really I always wanted to fit in with Anna Leistikow and Amy Larson. (That's a lie too, although at least one of the two turned out real friendly in high school, they warned Randy not to play with me at recess in our earlier years, or so Greta told me. I didn't mind, and was too caught up in the Christy-Kristina gummy bear club catastrophe to worry about things like that.) I wanted to play hockey because it was more socially acceptable than Olympic speed skating where I come from. But, my mother thought it was too aggressive, and my father hates coaches. So-- I learned to play the piano instead, and sped around the frozen playground until my skates wore holes in my ankles, which usually occurred after the first two laps. Who knows why anyone skate for fun?

In Minnesota we do things the cold way. We eat ice cream when its twenty below. We make ice cream, without ice, when its even colder, and we stick our tongues on medal twice daily.

I can't remember a winter when I haven't at least tried it. Curiosity gets me every time. "Gee, I wonder if its cold enough for my tongue to stick to this!?" I think. Naturally, there is only one way to find out. It is a painful way, but exhilarating nonetheless.

I remember one early winter morning in the first grade-- Mrs. Obrien called roll to find Skyler was missing. Nothing too shocking. A kids allowed a day off at least once every two or three weeks. So we started the day with our reading and mathematics (I only assume that's how we started, because the only thing I remember about the first grade was challenging Steven to drawing contests, and trolls. Trolls were big) when out flew a commotion (I know that isn't a widely accepted phrase but its late and I don't care to think of an alternative way to use the word). All the children ran from their seats to the north windows. With our noses pushed up to the glass we found our missing man. There stood Skyler attached neatly to the flagpole by one wet hand. Who knows how it occurred, but it certainly had the playground ladies a bustle.

The moral of this story is that I hope Skyler is not telling a story about little red headed Jordan R in purple sweatpants pulled tight to look like stretch pants, digging popcorn from the trash cans beside the building at recess on Fridays when she forgot to bring a quarter to purchase her own.

AND...its been some time since I've felt like writing anything at all. Take advantage of those times when something inside just gets you going.