Playing the game

I've attended a lot of sporting events in my life. Basketball and volleyball games consumed the majority of my sports time but for a short spell, my mom (bless her soul), got us interested in soccer (futbol).
Now at the time I didn't have much appreciation for the game, let's face it, I was twelve. And on top of that, I was from the Midwest, specifically Nebraska.
Nebraskans are die-hard American football fans. We even built our stadium so that it alone dominates the Lincoln skyline. Little boys dream of one day playing for the Huskers. Every man, woman, and child owns some piece of Husker memorabilia while each fall thousands of fans make the pilgrimage from their homes to THE Homeland: Memorial Stadium.
So when the World Cup came around I expected a handful of fans to be interested in the game because that was about the number of fans that turned out for the games when I was 12.
What I found was that futbol is becoming popular in the Midwest. And I was behind on the times.
The sports bar in Lincoln, complete with Husker jerseys, pictures, and logos on all the tables, was packed with U.S. fans. In fact, I was informed, Lincoln was the starting point for a group of fans known as the American Outlaws which now spans the country cheering on U.S. futbol. Each tense moment in the U.S. v. Belgium game was met with cheers, jeers, and sighs. The tension was nearly as thick as a Husker game as blasphemous as that sounds.
In this city where American football is the epitome of Nebraska-ness, fans of every size and shape gathered to cheer on a team playing a sport popular the world over. The Midwest has caught futbol fever and I don't think it's going away.
Nebraska is changing, slowly but surely, and this change in sports taste reflects that. Whether it's in the big stadiums of Europe of the backyard games we played after VBS futbol is a popular sport.

You think I would learn

You'd honestly think that I would learn.
September is not traditionally a frigid month in Nebraska. It's a time of changing seasons: the cottonwoods, old creaking, giant trees, begin to change their leaves the bright green waving pieces turning brown and yellow before falling to the ground. The sea of green that was prevalent the entire summer suddenly becomes dotted with bright red bloodspots as the sumac plants shed their normally muted green leaves for the bright red suit of autumn. The air chills but not by much; every other day is still a good hay day or at least that's what my dad says.
Which is why, when the temperature suddenly dropped in the first few weeks of September, I refused to believe it.
Dad and I had been going out to the calving pasture every morning for the past few weeks to tag calves and run out pairs. This particular morning, I watched my dad dig out his winter coveralls, put on two layers of coats and his heavy boots. My dad usually digs out his coveralls as soon as the temp gauge hits 60 degrees. I usually don't dig mine out until much later. In fact, we tease him that he's just silly for wanting to put on his coveralls in the middle of summer.
So while the morning looked like another summer day, the gauge in the window said differently: a measly 36 degrees to start out the morning, and cloudy to boot.
Dad shrugged into his layers upon layers of clothes and I just put on a heavy coat, sweatshirt and my ball cap, chalking the coveralls up to my dad's overdeveloped sense of cold. I didn't bother to look at the temperature in the window myself.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
The clouds hung low and ominous over the green Nebraska prairie as a fine mist dripped onto everything. Beads hung on the tall grasses, Trees collected raindrops like fine diamonds, holding them on thin leaves until they grew too numerous for them to keep to themselves and they spilled from the sky in a shower of sparkles onto the gray earth below.
As soon as we pulled the four-wheelers out of the shop I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. The slight northern breeze felt like a hurricane force gale when combined with the self-created wind of the four-wheeler. I could already feel the sharp singing of the windburn begin on my cheeks. The thin summer gloves I'd decided would be enough for my fingers let every needle-like finger of wind through, numbing my hands until I couldn't feel my thumb anymore. But my pride, the same pride that made me ride on the sled behind the tractor during a winter storm without ever admitting to my dad how cold I was, kept me from running back to the house for more clothes.
I glanced at my dad from beneath the layers of hoods that I, thankfully, had conceded to wear. He looked cozy in his coveralls.
You'd honestly think I would learn.
We sorted off one pair. I watched, shivering as my dad searched through the dozens of little red tags in his pocket for the correct one. With a sinking heart, I watched him put ALL of the tags back in his pocket, look up, and say, "I'll have to run back and make one."
So there I sat, shivering in my Carhartt coat, one sweatshirt and summer gloves, holding myself as close to the warm four-wheeler as I could, cursing my stupidity only to have the words snatched away by that bone-chilling northern wind.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that bad. But mind over matter doesn't work on that north wind; it blows and howls without a care for anyone that stands in it's way, no matter how many blustery words they blow back at it.
If only I'd taken my dad at his word and put on my coveralls. After so many years he knows when it's cold out, really cold, coveralls cold.
You'd honestly think I would learn.

An ode to summer

If you rearrange the letters in SUMMER you get the word freedom.
Okay, so maybe not so much the exact word freedom but you get the sense. No school, no schedule, no snow, no boots just bare feet, pools and hayfields.
Summer in Nebraska means cool, humid dawns that rapidly dissolve into hot, muggy mornings which then transition into hay weather by early afternoon: hot and dry with a little breeze blowing in from the south. Clouds often build from wispy, thin strips on the western horizon into monstrous thunderheads by the time the sun sets. They rumble, deep, throaty voices making the whole plains shake. Time seems to stand still in those moments as the inhabitants of the summer plains wait to see if blessed rain will pour from the sky or if a sharp crack of lighting will steal the hard work of their hands from them in a flash of fire.
Freedom is playing with kittens all morning in the cool shadows of the house then clambering into the pool when the afternoon with it's oppressive heat comes sneaking along. It's spending so much time swimming that little red heads fade to blonde and freckles become more prominent.
Every day is spent gathering in the summer grass so that a little piece of the warmth can be unfurled when winter finally does come. A long arduous process that can seem monotonous becomes an adventure as the first few fawns of summer peep their heads above the long prairie grass and turkey nests come alive with baby chicks as the tractor roars close to their home. The sweet smell of mowed grass mingles in the air with the heavy fragrance of the wild plum bushes as they bloom in the humid summer evenings.
It's the first few sips of sun tea when the heat of the day is still lingering in the jar. It's the feel of laundry right off the clothesline, crisp and warm from time in the sun. It's racing back while chasing cattle as a storm closes in from the west. It's going to summer camp, having friends over, and celebrating birthdays. It's target practice and fair time. It's vacation Bible school and the croaking of frogs in the dam below the house.
Summer is freedom. hayfields, swimming, and thunderstorms.
The season is short and you have to savor every single moment, saving it to remember when the snows blow in and the temperature drops below zero.
Those sweet, free days of summer never last long. School starts too soon and before long those simple days of kittens and pools are just a happy memory.
Until next summer.

The end of a never ending road

The long road home

It's one pale stretch of gray pavement that mars the otherwise flowing green hills of northern Nebraska. Marching in a straight line from north to south, the road is the conduit through which the small trickle of travelers hurry through the most beautiful part of Nebraska on their way to somewhere "more important."
It runs from river to river, with only a hill or two to break the monotony. But the distance is short and the road is simply the most convenient way to connect two points rather than a grand display of the benefits of American infrastructure.
The road seemingly stops just beyond that last rise. It crests the valley hill then simply disappears. That's where the world ends.
Sure, there are towns that exist beyond the edge of the river but they are inconsequential. The road, for that matter, is of little consequence as well. While hours may go by without a vehicle traversing the gray expanse, the fields and gravel roads, invisible from the highway teem with life. Cattle wander from pasture corner to pasture corner, grazing slowly on the tall blades of summer grass. Mowers hum and buzz as they make sweep after sweep around fields slicing down the grass to dry before a rake sweeps it up to be baled, a little piece of summer that will be served during the long cold winter that inevitably follows the summer warmth. Children play and laugh in makeshift pools and creeks,the tumbling, rushing water cutting valleys into the prairie floor. All this activity happens in the byways and hedges along that solitary stretch of road far from the rush of traffic that plagues other parts of the state. Life happens away from the road, houses are built miles from the highway with dusty country lanes creating spidery maps over the fields.
Most locals' commute takes them out onto the road; mothers in their vans and suburbans cautiously making their way onto the highway to take their young children to the little schoolhouse, fathers in big pickup trucks lumbering away to tend to the cattle, teens zipping past on their way out of the hollow to the high school far from the straight road. But the road never rushes like the interstate, with cars ebbing and flowing over it like the river over rocks.
The road, a straight arrow to the heart of the heartland, leads the wandering children back again to the world from the abyss beyond the river. Just to follow that lonely, empty road will eventually bring the wanderer home.