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.

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.

This morning, I woke to the sound of traffic on wet streets, and for our downtown condo, that’s as romantic as it gets. Even though we live on the top floor of our building, we still can’t hear the rain tapping on the roof like our cabin in North Idaho. I found myself trying to remember how often I’ve uttered the aphorism, “When it rains, it pours.” Even though the thought seemed apropos of the drenching downtown Sioux Falls was getting, it makes less and less sense as I age.

As I write, I am munching on a slice of the best sourdough bread known to humankind, slathered in real butter. And that will probably be the last inclusive and gender-sensitive comment I will make in this post because I am asserting that it is a wife’s role to panic. This claim is not politically correct and verges on misogyny, but it’s true. I’ve spent nearly fifty years in marriage, wishing my wife would stop panicking before I realized that she was just doing her job.

I love tools. If there is such a thing as a tool addiction, I have it. A good friend likes to say, “I’ve got a tool for that.” And then he’ll trot out the perfect tool for the job. However, I’ve rarely been able to say that myself. I must confess that I genuinely envied him for his outstanding stock of tools. My passion for having a store of equipment like that has grown over time. And lately, my ability to have the right tool for the job has increased dramatically. Let me tell you how that happened.

From the murder mystery on the Orient Express to the larsonistic exploits of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, trains have engendered romantic images for Americans. We idolize those iron horses that helped tame the West and the golden spike that united the United States. Following the veins of capitalism, the romance of iron rails spread itself to thousands of commercial centers, from tiny farming communities to giant metropolises across our land. These lines have conveyed the lifeblood of American business for the better part of two centuries. Even now, as our supply chain has incorporated other forms of transportation, railroads still hold a significant stake in getting things from one place to another on our continent.

I didn't have the beautiful jazz orchestral sounds of James Brown's classic hit, "Georgia on my mind," on my mind when we turned our little Equinox southeast toward our winter retreat. But it fits. The word that best describes Georgia this time of year is lovely. It's all a matter of timing. My sister lives in Georgia and assures me that my pale upper midwest physique would melt during the Georgia summer. Even though parts of me could use some melting, I'm content to take her word for it. But in winter, lovely is a word that gets a lot of air time when we visit.

After years of having my machismo tied up in possessing a vehicle, I no longer own a car. That statement is overly dramatic and not technically accurate. The lovely little Chevy Equinox in which we travel about the country does have my name on the title. But there is little doubt that it’s my Wife’s car. From the car’s perspective, this is a better arrangement. My Wife is meticulous about oil changes, washings, and minor repairs. All things she has me do to help shore up my delicate masculinity.

Visiting grandchildren is one of the true joys in life. Much of this delight comes because they are our children’s children. So much energy goes into raising children that we parents often fail to step back and enjoy the fruits of our labor. The latter stages of the process are challenging when we must put the protocols into place required for adult friendship. Parents of adult children are often like artists that continuously want to fuss with their work long past its completion. Fortunately, grandchildren are the most effective antidote to this troublesome inclination. After all, how could we have such perfect grandchildren if we hadn’t done something right?

This post is inspired by being in Korea again and eating a national delicacy called Budae Jjigae (Buda Chigay). From my “Seoul Food” post last May, some of you will recall that we roughly translate the name of this delightful dish as “Army Stew.” It is a spicy sausage stew made with canned baked beans, kimchi, ramen noodles, and gochujang, which features Spam, Vienna sausages, hotdogs, and several yet-to-be-identified cold cuts. It is a cornucopia of processed meats, a food type that critics have recently treated harshly. As I was sitting and enjoying the wonder of Korea’s tribute to the American G.I., I was motivated to make a defense on behalf of the delicatessen wonder of meat that comes in cans and tubes.