I grew up around men with rough and course hands from endless days of gripping and pounding. Calluses formed and smoothed over their palms and inside of their fingers protecting their beaten skin, making them look larger than they were. Tiny cuts in and around the bends of their fingers, some bright red from moments before, others darker from earlier in the week. Dirt and oil jammed underneath their nails that needed an extra washing and scrub before dinner.
These were the men that I knew. They worked hard. They knew what hard was and didn’t shy from it.
“I ate an Arby’s roast beef sandwich the other day. I don’t know if it was all the way cooked through.”
“Did you get sick?” I asked.
My friend’s dad, Louie, shrugged his shoulders and gave a half-chuckle. “Nooo . . . it went down alright, but I think I will take a break from them for a while.”
“I just love Arby’s roast beef sandwiches. A good price too given Louie and I go and have two for $4 on Tuesdays,” says Julie his wife.
“You know what I tell my grandkids, you better pick something before it picks you,” Louie says.
I nod. “You are right.”
“Do you think I said when I was growing up that I wanted to work for a milk company in the freezer my whole working life; 40 years – . No I just fell into it after the service. It was a job and it paid and then Julie and I got married and then the kids. So I tell them, pick something before it picks you; we all have to do something to make a livin.” He says with a smile that builds into a chuckle. His two hands shoved into his jeans given to him by his daughter.
“Debbie knows how to pick’em and find’em.” He smiles again.
I can tell he is happy.
I grew up with my friend Debbie shoveling our neighbors’ driveways not because they asked, but because it needed shoveling.
I grew up eating potato hot dishes, tater-tot hot dishes, tuna-noodle hot dish, baked potatoes, scalloped potatoes, mashed potatoes, any-old potato with milk, cream, and butter that can be mixed-in or placed on top. A little salt and a little pepper, nothing else.
I grew up eating cream of chipped-beef on toast, kind of gross not going to lie. Cream of tuna on toast, anything on toast that you can mix cream and meat in.
Midwesterners breakdown boxes when they are done with them. You fold and bend them into smaller and smaller shapes, shove them into another box. It is just so, and I never met anyone that didn’t.
Midwesterners asked how you are doing and wait for an answer.
We smile and greet each other, nod our heads if our hands are full.
Not that long ago I was at the clinic and the at least five people were waiting for the elevator. It stops and opens, and no one moves. A man says to another, you were here first, the person replies, “No you were.” No one is moving – waiting for whomever was there first to enter the elevator.
I am thinking we are going to miss our elevator if someone doesn’t move. Finally someone does a half step and then a full-step and we all enter with smiles on our faces. “You should go, you have those crutches.”
“Oh, I have these for a while. My foot has been a mess for months now.”
“I am so sorry. How did that happen?”
And they stop and listen.
The elevator door opens and I exit.
Midwesterners or maybe more Minnesotans do not want to offend. It is this unwritten cultural way of being. We don’t want to hurt anyone or offend, but more offend. When asked an opinion you can get an array of answers and some “hums” and way-word glances to the left and right; a smile, a chuckle, or just an avoidance altogether. You may get an “interesting, or maybe . . . have you thought of this . . . “never saying they didn’t like what you said or disagreed with what you did, just an alternative to the situation.
It is hard to get an opinion at times unless it is your real friends and you can tell each other the truth. It still may get a hum or a slight uncomfortable smile.
I met a woman at the airport this last trip. She is from Boston and she met her husband in Boston but he is from Minnesota. She works for a company based in Minnesota and Boston so she flies a lot back-and-forth. She has had a learning curve with her husband’s family. She was super nice and we exchanged numbers.
I said to pay attention when someone wants you to do something, but won’t tell you straight out. She looks at me in confusion.
You are at a party and the host wants to move into another room. Instead of saying, “Let’s move into the living room.” He will instead say, “How about we move into the living room?” A question never a statement. This avoids offending someone or coming off rude.
“I will have to remember that,” she says.
A Minnesota good-bye: start saying good-bye in person or one the phone 5-10 minutes before you have to leave or get off the phone.
“I have to get going soon.”
“Oh, okay, did I tell you about Susan?”
“Susan, our old neighbor.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh yeah, well she and her husband had to sell their house because he lost his job and she didn’t know what to do, so they are renting an apartment now.”
“Oh, that’s awful. When did he lose his job?”
“About two months ago . . . .” You get the point.
A sure tell sign you are in Minnesota, the shuttle driver talks to you.
“Where you going?”
“Ah, yeah, my uncle has had a place up in the Duluth area for ten years now, right on the outer banks there where the wind comes off superior. Real nice, but that wind will knock you off your feet especially if your standing up on them.”
Oh lord.
“My name is Bob.” He shakes my hand. My Dad’s name is Bob too.
We love our picnics, our lakes, fishing, and grilling; like others. But it is what we have. We don’t have none of them oceans, or surfing, or anything. Just a boat and a nice summer day, as long as you bring your mosquito repellant.
We start work early and work late. It is the farmer lineage in us.
My parents always had a ford or Chevy car or truck. That was it. I remember one time I got in my car and I think I accelerated hard when I backed up – not sure why except I think I really wanted to leave. The steering wheel was turned a little to the left, so when I backed up, it swung and hit my dad’s truck in his bumper. I got out and the bumper was bent out, almost detached from my dad’s truck. The truck looked alright, but the bumper was almost bent not 90 degrees, but a good 45 degrees.
I was so scared as my dad was inside downstairs. I started pacing back and forth, back and forth and I finally said, “Dad. . . “He came out and face got gruff. “What happened?” I kind of said what happened, but he looked at me like, “How did you do that?”
“Not sure.”
Being who he was, he backed up his truck angling it just right to flatten out the bumper against one of the large trees in our front yard. He slowly put it in reverse and bent it back enough where it was straighter, not perfect, and it didn’t crack in half. “Oops.” A strike against me for sure.
Midwesterners – hard work, long hours, not afraid to pick up and help out.
How am I doing? Hard work, long hours, and keep going at it.
How are you?
Keep going at it.
Watch this link: super funny.
Dwayne and Mom: