![](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/614a39173ae19447e16cce9a/eb2b4cf6-d4b5-4e6e-b86e-fe3b6cc88e38/nomad-main-230301.jpg)
A Midwestern Nomad
Occasional Musings from a
flown-over perspective.
![](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/614a39173ae19447e16cce9a/eb2b4cf6-d4b5-4e6e-b86e-fe3b6cc88e38/nomad-main-230301.jpg)
Let’s say I’m a blessed man, at least regarding hair, or so goes the conventional wisdom. At seventy years of age, I still have a full head of hair. I remember from a very early age watching my father donning a hat to cover the few remaining wisps of hair left from his male pattern baldness. My Dad’s concern was less about vanity and more about avoiding the painful sunburn that his love of the outdoors would inflict on his exposed pate. I’ve spent my entire life feeling destined to thinning and disappearing hair, but it never happened. Just when I began to think I was truly blessed, then the popular belief emerged that ample testosterone is mainly responsible for male pattern baldness. Now, I’ve started to wonder if I am something less than virile. Maybe a full head of hair is the public symbol of a wimp, and I should consider a toupee that makes me look bald.
The only entity on earth more gullible than a fish is a fisherman. We prove it relentlessly because we believe that if you have the perfect bits of fur, feathers, plastic, or metal tied to your fishing line, you will instantly fill your kreel with trophy-sized fish. This lucrative psychosis is good for the economy but rarely turns out as expected for the angler.
Recently, when we pointed the nose of our little Chevy Equinox toward Sheridan, Wyoming, it knew just what to do. Traveling the broad, wide-open, nearly turnless stretches of South Dakota, we quickly made it to the Black Hills, South Dakota’s claim to natural beauty. I think of them as the gateway to Wyoming. Many people do not know that the Black Hills extend into Wyoming. I didn’t until lately. As a South Dakotan, I’m okay about sharing those splendid little mountains with Wyoming because I love that state, too.
I’m suffering from an identity crisis. I suppose that sounds more dramatic than it is, but there are ramifications to my confusion. I write these blog posts as a Midwestern Nomad. Even though I remain nomadic, there is now some question about whether I’m midwestern. My recent relocation causes this conundrum. Let me back up and start at the beginning.