missourah

'mafraid I might be more Missouri than I thought.

Some recent field trips through the northwestern corner, past the hometown of Sir Jesse James (site of cross country district championship win '02, hollerr), through slow rolling hills, past signs for the Stetson store, boot company, and Pendleton outlet (Gainfully employed, I would've stopped at each.), stirred my pioneer heart with fondness for the state I've never really accepted as my own.

Badger-bred and cheese-curd-cultured, I never felt much entrenched here in this state. As a first-generation Missourian I bled neither black and gold nor blue and red for the MU-KU rivalries and didn't know I-70 went east til I started heading there for meets, visits to Marcy's grandparents in Marshall, and State soccer cheerleading. Da YooPee? Yah, I know where dat is, but Rolla what? I know more about Wisconsin's geography and have seen more of it than Miss MO's. Kids here titter at my parents' long As and make fun of the way all we Kellys say "Wisconsin." Wisg-onsin. Not Wes-Consin. What are you, from Missourah?

But then I started to wonder when some nerds at Marquette freshman year thought I had a drawl. And my recent little drives got me thinking about Missouri's place in our fine country, at the edge of the plains and prairie, where the west began, and where south still meets midwest. Yeah, y'uall this is the heartland.

I have to say, I quite like my bicultural formation. Alternating between Spotted Cow and Boulevard, fish fries and barbeque. I can dig it. I'll don my Stetson, pick up my boots in St. Joseph, spin my spurs and hop on that Oregon Trail. With summer sausage in my wagon.