Lost Hat Found

All is quiet when I walk in the front door of the city’s newest shelter and adoption center. The shelter’s founder, Aaron Blake, assures me that it’s less quiet in the back where volunteers are hard at work, and that I “should have been here earlier, a Little League Team dropped by.”

You can’t adopt a dog or cat here. You can’t pet a snake or watch a turtle have lunch. This isn’t a shelter for animals. It’s a shelter for hats.

Lost Hat Found was opened by Aaron Blake and his wife Sara two months ago after they inherited a great uncle’s hat collection. “I already had eight or nine of my own,” says Blake, “and he gave me twice that many.”

“More than you could ever wear yourself,” Sara adds. All the headgear was in good condition and had sentimental value, so the couple decided not to throw them away, or even to give them to Goodwill.

“We want them to be treasured,” says Blake, “just like we would treasure them ourselves.” They decided to open Lost Hat Found.

The Blakes don’t charge for hats. “This is an adoption center, not a store,” Blake informs some soon-to-be adopters. “We ask for a free will donation, just whatever you’d like to give us to help keep the lights on. The important thing is how you treat that hat you’re takin’ home.”

Sometimes Lost Hat Found gets donations of a different kind. “We had a lady walk in here the other day with about thirty hat boxes all loaded onto a wagon,” Blake says, stretching a hand up toward the ceiling. “All stacked up to here.” And what did they do with them? “A lot of them were real old. Sara’s got a friend at the historical society who took a bunch to put in a museum, but we’ve still got a few here.” A beautiful white and pink cylindrical hat box stands on the end of the counter, and Blake calls Sara out to try it on so I can see. It’s a little white circle with a matching short veil, called a fascinator, which Sara informs me would be the perfect “something old” for any bride’s wedding.

But cocktail hats are not usually what comes to mind when one thinks of unwanted headgear. “We got plenty of all kinds,” Blake says, and waves me behind the counter and into the back room, where Lost Hat Found’s volunteers are hard at work.

“First I wash everything,” Sara tells me as she shows me her work station, which consists of a washing machine, sink, and a table spread with lots of different kinds of brushes and stain removal products. “Not everything can just be thrown into the [washing] machine, but it’s gotta get clean somehow,” she says. Her current project is removing some glue from the side of a bowler hat. “The local high school drama club needs this for a costume, and I want to make sure it looks nice for them.”

Sara’s friend Kathy occupies a spot in front of a sewing machine. She shows me a recent acquisition: a very battered camouflage ball cap that she calls “Ol’ Larry.” “Somebody dropped Ol’ Larry off here yesterday. Said he found it in a ditch next to the stadium while he was out on a run. Probably it fell off a tailgater’s head on the way to the game or something, and it got run over a few times before it ended up in the ditch. Sara washed it, and now I’ll sew it up as best I can, maybe patch it if I need to.” She bends the brim of the hat and smiles. “This old thing’s still got some love left to give, and we’ll help make sure it gets the chance to give it.”

Ol' Larry, before Kathy started her work.

Blake’s cousin Steve keeps track of the shelter’s inventory. “I’m not really a… hat person,” he admits, “but Uncle Eli liked them and so does Aaron, and I guess a lot of other people do, too. The least I can do is to help out.”

Steve shows me several shelves full of ball caps ready for adoption. “Some of these looked pretty bad when they first showed up,” he says, “but Sara and Kathy work wonders.” Steve says they work especially hard when large amounts come in all at once. “A couple of weekends ago a guy dropped off like three garbage bags full of hats exactly like this one,” he says, as he holds out a dark blue ball cap with chartreuse and silver streaks. “This is usually the kind of thing that Little League teams are looking for when they come in. But sometimes the kids get carried away picking out their own hats, and the coaches go ahead and let them wear what they want. I heard one of them say that the kids were matching because none of their hats matched.”

You wouldn’t think there would be much demand for a place like Lost Hat Found, but Sara says that’s not true. “The first week we had a couple of kids in here looking for stuff for an Indiana Jones costume, so we let them have Aaron’s old fedora,” she recalls. “They told some of their friends and the next thing you know we’ve got all kinds of people calling, asking to be put on a waiting list for all sorts of different kinds of specialty hats, just in case we ever get them in. I’ve found forever homes for three different rainbow striped Cat in the Hat top hats.”

Even I found a hat to take home; Kathy finished up just as I was about to leave, and Ol’ Larry turned out to be just my size. Hopefully Lost Hat Found will continue to benefit the community and become what they have found for so many people: the perfect fit.

Chewbacca for Legislature, 2014

This weekend, I sat down in a chair in my parents' living room and grabbed a bit of newspaper off the side table. My mother is one of the remaining hundred or so people in the world who still subscribes. (Or, in the words of Liz Lemon, "Suck it, I do read the paper!")

The section in question happened to be a very interesting Voter's Guide 2014, in which candidates for today's primary had been invited to contribute. I immersed myself in it, and soon was arguing aloud with the answers some had given. 

"You didn't fully answer the question, sweetcheeks," I said to the picture of the distinguished gentleman hoping to serve our great state. My husband, the only other person in the room, knows my strange ways and so ignored me, dividing his attention between his phone and The Empire Strikes Back, which my father had placed in the DVD player as a special Mother's Day treat.

My brother then entered the room with a plateful of pizza and attempted a spirited impression of Captain Solo's furry sidekick. At the same moment, I finished reading a candidate's answer, one which I disagreed with. "No," I said loudly to the newspaper, as I shook my head. "No."

Glancing at me, my brother tried again, this time actually saying something in Wookie (I don't speak it, though, so I'm not sure what it was). My husband took pity on him and informed him that I was arguing with my reading material. My brother laughed and said he knew, but figured he should give the impression another shot anyway.

I took the Voter's Guide home when the movie was over, to argue one-sidedly with the candidates and decide which to vote for. I suppose it could be said that I should have been doing my own research into the people I hope to trust to run the government, but I would answer that a candidate who doesn't have enough time to answer five questions for the Lincoln Journal Star may have trouble prioritizing their time when in office. (Seriously? It's five questions about stuff you already talk about all the time.)

Don't forget to vote today, Nebraska. I don't know about you, but the thing that will be making me giggle when I head over to vote tonight (aside from the memory of my brother's excellent Chewbacca impersonation) is the fact that I may have referred to a future governor of Nebraska as "sweetcheeks."

Weather Translators

Last night I sat on the couch watching various local channels track the storm that was heading across the state. I don’t normally watch the news, so it’s been a while since I’ve watched a weather segment. From what I can remember, it’s a little speech about whether or not you’ll need an umbrella tomorrow, professionally delivered by a meteorologist in a suit.

What we don’t see, behind the weather puns and the jokes with the news anchors, is a team of sky scientists who devour weather information and present it to non-sky scientists in a way that they can understand.

Meteorologists are weather translators.

When the weather is boring or normal, we don’t pay much attention to that part of the news. When the weather is exciting or dangerous, we are glued to our televisions, craving information. We may not understand how humidity relates to temperature or what it means when the wind is blowing from the northeast in one place and from the southwest five miles away, but meteorologists do, and it’s their job to explain it in a way that lets us know what’s going on (and whether we need to head to the basement).

Watching the weather coverage last night was what I imagine work is like for those sky scientists every day, with the added stress of having the cameras on and the necessity of “translating” on the fly.

Great job last night, Nebraska meteorologists; I appreciated the weather translation.

Expect Delays

"You can't close all of 10th Street except for one lane," I recently told a traffic sign informing passing motorists of upcoming construction.

"LEFT THREE LANES CLOSING 3/15/14," it blinked back. "EXPECT DELAYS."

I grumbled at it and went on my way, secretly hoping that it wouldn't disturb my little commute.

Last Monday, the sign and I had words again.

"LEFT THREE LANES CLOSING 3/21/14," it told me. "EXPECT DELAYS."

"Yeah, right," I shot back, "I'll believe it when I see it!"

It turns out that you can win an argument with an inanimate object, because as I passed the sign this morning, it was sitting quietly on the side of the street while all four lanes functioned normally. Maybe they decided to postpone the work again, or cancel it entirely.

Although I suppose it was right about one thing: when it comes to doing street construction in downtown Lincoln, you can definitely expect delays.

Formidabuilding

I’m sitting here staring at the City/County Building.

It’s not a pleasant destination.

The wind howls down 10th Street and every single person waiting to cross K Street looks like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Parking is atrocious. Fighting to parallel park in a spot on the street or giving in and paying for one in the lot a block north: neither one is fun.

The traffic down 9th Street always slows a bit there, the sight of all of those police cars parked out back reminds every driver that they ought to be following the speed limit, and for a moment, makes all of them wonder what the speed limit is.

Some, though, are slowing down to turn into that driveway, headed for the metal mailbox which is waiting to recieve the orange envelope that they found on their windshield that day they thought they could get away with putting only a dime in the parking meter when they knew that they were going to be gone a quarter’s worth of time.

Inside, there’s an office on the first floor where you can wait in line with a stack of property tax forms and a check to pay for them.

And in a tiny room, tucked in the back corner of an upper floor, there’s an office which you can make your way to in order to show your vehicle’s registration after getting a warning for speeding at that one spot in David City where the speed limit goes from 55 to 25.

It’s a necessary place, the City/County Building. It sits, solidly formidable, ignoring the foot and vehicle traffic rushing around it.

Formidabuilding.

Sibling Sushi

“The older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.” -Baz Luhrmann

When I was a kid, my brothers were my playmates, my rivals, and my best friends. We ran all over the pasture at my grandparents’ farm, rode bikes around town, and built many precarious and architecturally unsound tree houses. We learned, grew, and got into trouble together. We had ridiculous nicknames for each other and stupid inside jokes that we couldn’t explain to others if we tried.

Then we grew up.

We don’t play together anymore, but that’s because I don’t have any Barbies and their G.I. Joes have been missing for years. The last fight we had was probably in junior high about whether we were going to watch a movie or cartoons. And nobody has dug any holes in the middle of the yard in an attempt to tunnel to the other side of the earth nor nailed boards randomly to the side of any trees for a decade or so.

We’ve still got stupid inside jokes and call each other embarrassing things. We’re still learning together and watching our children grow together while we sit and discuss the difficulties of having a career. We still love to ramble in the pasture at the farm and point out which trees that we used to pretend were our houses next to the dried up pond.

My brothers are still my best friends. I know that if I ever need anything, they will help however they can, even if it requires them to let me talk their ear off on the phone when they call to ask me something.

We love to get together whenever possible, whether we’re in my front hallway talking for half an hour without realizing how long we’d been standing there or hanging out in my parents’ living room, laughing about stupid stuff. But there is one thing we like to do at least once a year, and that’s Sibling Sushi.

Lincoln, Nebraska has several excellent sushi restaurants; every once in a while we pick one and head over, vowing that we will hang out, eat sushi, and high five. We sit and talk about anything and everything, fight over Philadelphia rolls, sip miso soup, and my husband and sister in law laugh while my brothers and I high five each other like we’re the kids we used to be.

Sushi is awesome, and so is hanging out with your siblings. If you’re like, “Eww, gross! Raw fish!” then there’s always Taco Bell. But in my opinion, by skipping the sushi you’re missing out on quite a few awesome alliterative possibilities.

No matter what you eat, hanging out with the people you were close to as a kid is a wonderful thing. (High five!)

Look Before Driving

When my family and I lived in Boulder, Colorado, sometimes I’d get annoyed while driving through town. At the time, I felt that the pedestrian crosswalk precautions were a little bit much.

There are signs. Thick lines of paint on the street. Flashing lights on poles. And a loud voice announcing that pedestrians were using the crosswalk.

The first several times I drove through them, I’d roll my eyes. “Really?” I’d think. “Do I really need all this to remind me that pedestrians sometimes walk across the street here? This is too much.”

Was it?

Nope.

I never hit or even came close to hitting a pedestrian or bicyclist in Boulder.

Lincoln, Nebraska has a ton of foot and bicycle traffic, too, but not as much trumpeting parade about it. Here, you don’t get reminded to use common sense when you pull up to an intersection near campus. Instead, the flood of students crossing the street reminds you that you can’t pull across the crosswalk as you wait for traffic to lighten so you can turn the corner. You feel like an idiot as everyone walks around your car and gives you dirty looks.

Nobody ever gets in their car and plans to hit someone with it, but I’ve come close a couple of times. There’s a blind corner in the alley behind Tico’s that you have to completely stop and inch forward bit by bit until you can see if there’s anyone you’re about to ram into coming down the sidewalk.

I’d imagine that Portland is more like Boulder than Lincoln is. It’s hard to miss a loud pedestrian crosswalk, especially when there are other cars stopped for aforementioned pedestrians. Nobody gets up in the morning planning to be vilified on the internet, but sometimes when you hit an internet celebrity riding her bicycle across a very bicycle-friendly crosswalk in a very bicycle-friendly city, you end up being the jerk everyone on the internet hates.

I hope you’re okay, Erika, and if nothing else, your adventure today will make the rude gentleman a more respectful and attentive driver.

Am I... Am I the type of person who gets hit by a car while riding my bike and then tweets about it? Yes, I suppose I am.
— Erika Moen (@ErikaMoen) November 19, 2013

Hail Mary

The Hail Mary is a play that gets called when a team has nothing to lose and might as well pray for a miracle.

“Let’s see if this kid can throw the football,” I said sarcastically as I sat on my parents’ couch. The football flew down the field. “Let’s see if somebody actually catches this,” I added, as the ball bounced back up into the air, tipped off of a player’s fingers. Jordan Westerkamp leapt up and snatched the ball out of the air, landing in the end zone. The state of Nebraska went crazy, screaming and hugging everyone within a five foot radius.

It was a miracle.

Hometown Tourist

I didn't set out yesterday to have such an eventful afternoon. I certainly didn't set out to give a guided tour of my hometown. But, when in Rome (or Lincoln, rather)...

I set out to pick up some yarn from my mom's house. But when I got there, my mom told me that there was more yarn to be had, as my aunts who are visiting from Utah were going to come into town in quest of some.

Yarn Charm

My awesome sister-in-law works at the cutest yarn shop in town. Yarn Charm is a tiny yarn lover's paradise on Superior, a few blocks west of 27th Street. They have sock yarn, chunky yarn, lace yarn, or dyed wool in case you want to spin your own. (There are even toys in the classroom to distract your kids while you jump around squealing about yarn.) The prices are higher than at the big name craft stores, but so is the quality. I don't think you'll find a 50% silk/50% alpaca blend at Hobby Lobby. If you need some gorgeously fancy yarn, Yarn Charm is the place to be. (And if you don't know how to knit or crochet but want to learn, they offer classes! Check out their website or call for details.)

The Haymarket

I simultaneously congratulate and feel sorry for anyone who has never been to The Haymarket in Lincoln before. Congratulations, you've never had to deal with the parking situation. But, dude, you're missing out on the food situation.

We miraculously found two spots near one another, and parked on 8th Street between O and P Streets, where I immediately began pointing out restaurants to my hungry tour group. "There's a sushi place across the street; coffee house, coffee house, coffee house; Buzzard Billy's is Cajun, The Oven is Indian, there's Vincenzo's (Italian), Lazlo's is down the street (that's American food), there's a local Mexican place down the block and an interesting fusion burger place called Leadbelly."

To Old Chicago we went (there's no Old Chicago in southern Utah), to try local beers and split a calzone. My daughter opted for a more traditional kids' macaroni and cheese and a "Princess pink lemonade," which was not on the menu but our server promised to put extra "princess" in for her anyway.

Ivanna Cone

We turned down the offer of dessert, but that's only because Ivanna Cone is a block away. Ivanna Cone is the first thing you smell when you walk up the steps and open the door of The Creamery Building. It's the smell of freshly made waffle cone. They only take cash, but don't worry, there's an ATM in the hallway. There is usually at least one standard flavor on the chalkboard at Ivanna Cone: Dutch Chocolate, or Fresh Strawberry, or Sweet Cream Vanilla. But there's always something more gastronomically adventurous, like Lavender Lemon or Watermelon Lime Chili Sorbet. My Aunt Andie and I chose the safe option, Cinnamon, after I tasted a couple (and didn't fancy the Balsamic Strawberry), and my Aunt Tarie got Cinnamon Red Hots ice cream topped with hot fudge! While we enjoyed our dessert, I gave a mini-Haymarket news update, informing my tour group about the recent changes the area has undergone: the new arena and additional buildings, especially the plans for more parking space. My daughter hopped back and forth between taking bites of my ice cream and playing with the ice cream themed toys in the corner of the shop, where a sign reads, "you may play with our toys, but please clean up when you're done!"

The Creamery Building, where Ivanna Cone and Indigo Bridge are located.
(picture by Ammodramus, via wikipedia)

Indigo Bridge

The Creamery Building has three floors of interesting shops: Paint Yourself Silly, the Abracadabra Theater, a dance studio, and a photography studio (among others). But it's hard to leave Ivanna Cone and not walk directly into Indigo Bridge Books.

Indigo Bridge has one counter for buying books and another for coffee. While Aunt Tarie procured herself a decaf Americano (with locally roasted beans from Cultiva), Aunt Andrea found something shiny. She and my daughter tried on all the bracelets and picked one as I talked myself out of buying both a copy of Hark! A Vagrant! (although my birthday is coming up) and some mustache shaped post it notes, and after paying, we went on our way.

I tried not to lose my tour group as I lead the way in navigating the many one way streets back to my parents' house, where our tour ended with adorable babies, yarn envy, and plans for tomorrow.

You don't have to leave home to be a tourist (or a tour guide)! But some parts of the world are more blessed than others. I'm lucky to live in one of them! There are plenty of interesting things to do in Lincoln Nebraska, and if you ever want to visit, I'll show you, too.

A Midnight Stroll

I don't usually stay up until midnight, but when I do, strange things happen.

Lincoln, Nebraska is not a hard city to learn to navigate in. The streets running from north to south are numbered, and the streets running from east to west are lettered. When the city planners ran out of alphabet, they just started giving the streets names.

Friends visiting from out of town have often made fun of A Street, which is pronounced by the locals with a long a. The street sign inevitably get some laughs: “Look, it’s a street!”

It's not hard to figure out where you're going in Lincoln, that is, unless you're downtown, but that's another story.

My neighborhood is outside the letter zone and easily navigable by numbers. Most corners have two or at least one street sign, and all of them are lit up with street lamps at night. You can’t miss the street signs unless you’re purposely doing so.

Last night before bed I was at the computer finishing a few things (read: “playing a game”). The door was locked, but the light was on in the front room, and after a few minutes I became oblivious of time.

Until the doorbell rang.

I looked at the clock. 12:01. Who could be ringing my doorbell at midnight?! I thought. I got up to go see.

The only light was from the inside of the house (no porch light inviting anyone in or anything), but I could discern two people standing on the porch. Due to the late hour, I refused to open the door.

“Can I help you?” I said, in a tone that suggested to them that it was a bit late to be out for a walk.

One of them asked for directions to a numbered street nearby.

“Well, since this is X7th* Street, and they count up to the west, X9th Street would logically be two blocks that way,” I said, in a tone that made clear to them that I wasn’t expecting to give a navigation lesson so late.

I pointed west, and after double checking the direction, they went off to whatever destination they’d been headed to when they got so turned around in this easily navigable city as to have to ask for directions at the nearest house with a light on at midnight.

Maybe the next time they go for a midnight stroll, they should take a map.

__________
*I don’t really live on X7th Street. The first numbers have been removed to discourage those who read this blog from coming to my house and ringing the doorbell at midnight.

To Bean or Not To Bean

My husband grew up with his New Mexican parents and grandparents, and as a result we eat a lot of New Mexican dishes: we transform dry pinto beans into burritos, and ordinary dough into homemade tortillas or mouthwatering Navajo fry bread. (I’m telling you, my mother-in-law is a culinary wizard, and she has passed down her delicious magicks to her son.)

One of the things you have to deal with when prepping dry pinto beans is sort them and make sure there will be no foreign substances in your burritos. My husband sorts them meticulously, pulling out any beans that look too yucky to be eaten.

My experiences with sorting dry pinto beans are different than his. My parents and grandparents are all Nebraska born and bred, so there was no Navajo fry bread in my childhood. My first job, though, was at a fast food “Mexican” place, which made huge batches of pinto beans in gigantic ten gallon vats. Since there was a lot to do, there wasn’t a ton of time to take out the beans that looked slightly wrinkly or weren’t precisely the same shape and color as the rest of the beans. You had ten minutes to sort the beans, and then you had to go help in the drive thru. I could sort through a ten pound bag in that time period, and customers would never be able to tell if I left one in that was a bit wrinkly or smaller than the rest. I was focused on making sure no kernels of corn or soybeans or rocks got dumped into the pot.

A pile of delicious pinto beans on my kitchen counter waiting  to be sorted

It’s hard for me to watch my husband pick out weirdly shaped beans, because I can tell with a glance that there are no exotic ingredients mixed into our dry pinto beans. And it doesn't matter how it's shaped; as long as it’s a pinto bean, your taste buds won’t be able to tell the difference.

Besides, I’d be able to finish sorting a whole bag in ten minutes.

The State of the Sky

Often times we don’t pay much attention to the weather. If we do, we pay attention to the state of the sky in our general vicinity and don’t think about anyone else’s sky, be they several states or several cities away.


I’m not one of those people who watch the weather channel constantly, so when I go on a trip I pack clothing that will work with the season. June in Nebraska demands shorts, maybe a pair of jeans, no long sleeved shirts, and no jacket. Some days, it doesn’t matter what kind of clothing you wear (or don’t wear), you’re going to feel like you’re about to melt into the ground.


Recently one of my friends was complaining in her facebook status about the apparent heat wave we’ve been having in Colorado: “So... hot...” she moaned. “It wouldn’t be so bad if there was a breeze,” commented another friend, “but it’s just stifling.” I read these comments upon returning from Nebraska, where we had stepped out of our car in Ogallala to refuel. “You weren’t in Nebraska yesterday,” I commented, which completely failed to convey my contempt. I’m not sure how hot it was that day, but there was a brisk wind blowing which did not aid the disgusting state of the outdoors. I’d almost rather there hadn’t been any wind; it almost made it worse.


Nebraska is terribly humid, on top of the fact that its summers tend to be terribly hot. I never knew how repulsive they were until I traveled to New Mexico once for the weekend. It was certainly warm there, but the weather was very comfortable all weekend. The eastbound Amtrak train gets in to Lincoln, Nebraska every morning at around 4 AM, and when I stepped off the train that morning, it was like walking through a side door into a swimming pool. I regarded the train behind me, and would have gotten back on, except that it wasn’t going back the way I had come.

It was certainly warm when we got back from our visit to Nebraska this last weekend, but compared to the weather we had come from, it was a delight.


As much as I might miss my home, the places and people that are there, I definitely don’t miss the weather. Today’s weather in Boulder is overcast, with a light breeze. I’ve got the windows open and the air conditiner off. I am perfectly content to be ignorant of what the weather’s like in Nebraska, or in Aurora or in Sterling; except I may be a bit sad for their residents that their sky today isn’t as pleasant as mine.

A Husker in BuffaloLand (or, Learning to Care About the NFL)

Some people are sports enthusiasts. They watch every sport available, are fans of all the local teams and are up on the names and stats of all the players. My family enjoys sports, both playing and watching, but the only thing I can remember getting really excited about as a kid was Husker Football.


I say, “Husker Football,” because for some Nebraskans, there is no other kind. By this I mean that they are aware that there are other teams, but that they have no interest in watching these other teams play, unless they are playing the Huskers.


If you ask a Husker fan, “Who is your favorite team?” they will answer “The Nebraska Cornhuskers!” without first stopping to check whether you meant professional or college football or if you were perhaps referring to a different sport entirely.


We love our team. We love to watch them win, and though we don’t like to watch them lose, that won’t stop us from watching (just to gripe to one another about the officials or the coaching staff).


There are other sports teams in Lincoln. Our USHL hockey team has some rabid fans, and it was always interesting to work food service on a Friday night after Omaha’s team had been in town for a game. Stars fans in blue and white would glare across the restaurant or trade friendly insults with the orange and white clad Lancers fans. We also have an AAIPB team, the Saltdogs. (We were and are still baffled about the name, at least the hockey team has a Lincoln-esque name.) And then there’s the No Coast Derby Girls, who never seem to be having a bout when I’m in town & available to go and watch.


I have known NFL fans who were born and raised in Nebraska. Of course, they’re always also Husker fans, but they have found it in their hearts to love another team as well. My high school boyfriend was a 49ers fan. There are amazingly quite a few Patriots fans around, for whatever reason. And my cousin loves his NFL team so much that the colors at his wedding were yellow and red, with his groom’s cake covered with Chiefs logos and crowned with a football helmet.


The easiest way to explain our fanatacism is simply by looking at a map.
Florida, California, and New York each have three NFL teams. Missouri has two! It has been proposed that the reason Nebraska doesn’t have one is because we are quite satisfied with our college team, and probably wouldn’t pay attention to one if it were in town. Those who do want to pay attention are generally fans of nearby teams, like the Broncos or the Vikings (and I’ve even known a Packers fan or two).


We have been paying attention to the NFL recently since we’ve had a few of our seniors drafted. We’ve been excited about the Lions picking up Suh (though disappointed at his behavior as of late, he was never that rude when the played for us), Alex is kicking for the Eagles, and though he had to sit out for the first half of the season with an injured foot, Amukamara actually went with the Giants to the Superbowl!


I’m not sure if there are any other college teams that have a following like ours. I’m sure other teams have crazy fans like we do, but I’m not sure anyone has a complete lack of interest in anything other than their college team like the fans of the Nebraska Cornhuskers.


My husband and I were rather baffled at one another on first discussing football. I was ready for a fist fight: he’s from Colorado, and I expected that he would try to shout me down with the stats of CU’s Buffaloes as I shouted the years that the Huskers won National Champions at him. But to my surprise, he showed a total lack of concern for whatever was happening or had happened up in Boulder. He was a bit taken aback by the fact that I seemed to know next to nothing about the NFL, aside from the fact I could tell him that “Da Bears” were in Chicago, but only because I had seen it on a SNL sketch.


He couldn’t understand why I would be bothered by college football while I couldn’t get why he would care about the NFL.


He decided that I must be taught. My lessons came in the form of football games playing in the background of household activities happening on a Sunday, and paying attention to them when I felt like it. Supplementary lessons happened while sitting in the same room as the guys played Madden and ignoring them while I did something else. Eventually, I picked up a few things.


The first professional football culture shock I got was the fact that a fan does not just watch his team’s games, he watches everyone else’s. Who cares if you like the Chargers, you’re going to be watching the Bengals play the Ravens anyway.


I could never understand why anyone would want to get NFL Sunday Ticket until I began to learn how NFL teams are interconnected between North, South, East, and West, and the interaction between the NFC and the AFC. As I understand it, the Chargers fan from the AFC West is watching the Bengals and Ravens because the winner of that game may be going up against his team for the AFC Championship to compete for which goes to the Superbowl.


Another reason to pay attention to someone else’s team is that professional football players get traded around to play for different teams all the time. You want the best quarterback in the NFL to come and play for your team, no matter how many seasons he’s got left.


Also, since professional players are usually around a lot longer than four years, fans get to know the character of the player, on and off the field: is he a loving father, a party animal, a morale booster, or a drama queen? This leads to some people liking (or not liking) a certain team because they have a certain player on their roster.


My own support of certain NFL teams is completely irrational. Last season I developed a distaste for the Titans (for no discernable reason), and the Texans (because they seemed to be winning quite a bit). I have a special place in my heart for the Browns (who have won NFL championships, but it was almost sixty years ago, and way before the Superbowl was born) and I’m pleasantly surprised whenever the Bills win.


Although I now live in Colorado and occasionally get made fun of by friends for being a Husker, I am in good company: Husker fans seem to be everywhere. There are some who live just around the corner from my in-laws’ house, with a miniature red windmill in their front yard and Huskers mudflaps on their truck. It’s hard to drive anywhere without seeing Big Red “N”s on the back of vehicle windows or “University of Nebraska Alumni” frames wrapped around Colorado license plates. I even walked into the grocery store a couple of months ago, spotted a guy in Husker apparel, and said, “Nice coat! Go Huskers!” (He was as surprised to see me as I was to see him, he stuttered and managed to respond, “Yeah!” before I was out of earshot.)


Going back to the maps (which I claim no ownership of, by the way, I shamelessly stole them from various websites), it’s easy to see why we revere our Huskers. NFL teams may be nearby, but driving at least three hours to get to a game doesn’t appeal to many people.
You can see here clearly the reason that we love our Huskers: simply because they are ours. 

There’s something about cruising southbound over the bridge onto 9th street after being away from home for a while, and seeing Memorial Stadium shining in the afternoon sun.


Those are the times that you heave a sigh and think, “It’s good to be home.”


GO BIG RED!!!

Crazy Drive-Thru Lady

Last week after writing about the foods I crave but can’t have (as they can only be found in Nebraska), I decided that being able to have one out of three isn’t too bad, and attempted to seek out the Culver’s that is allegedly in Thornton, CO.


Saturday afternoon, after driving down to Aurora, I took a slight detour on the way home. My daughters were asleep in the backseat, and I was driving slowly down the street, rubbernecking around, trying to spot my destination. I knew it had to be close, but I wasn’t sure which side of the street it was on.


There was nothing interesting to the right, but on the other side of the street I spotted a Jack-in-the-Box (which did not interest me in the least; I’ve never eaten there, since it’s more of a West Coast place, and in fact there are none in Nebraska at all). Across the street from that, shining in the sunlight, was a Taco John’s. I hung a left immediately, the Hallelujah Chorus playing in my head.


I love Taco John’s. The reason I did not add it to my list of things I love and miss is because it would have been redundant, since it’s a Mexican fast food place, just like Amigos. Also, the closest Amigos is fourish hours away by car while the closest Taco John’s (that I knew of before Saturday) is an hour away. The other things that make Amigos more dear to my heart are that it is a place that I used to go all the time when I was a kid, and the Ranch. (Last November a Lincoln radio program had a heated debate about the best condiment in Lincoln. Amigos’ Ranch was a frontrunner.)


I was immensely excited to find a Taco John’s so close to where we live. Sure, 40 minutes is still a bit of a long drive for a craving, but since it’s between our place and my in-laws’ house, I can stop there on the way home from a visit without feeling too silly about having to drive all the way to Fort Morgan for a Meat & Potato Burrito.


I called my husband. “I found a Taco John’s!” I reported excitedly. “Who wants Culver’s when you can have Taco John’s?! Want me to bring you anything?” “Why would I want something from Taco John’s?” he asked in an annoyed tone. It did not deter my excitement. I pulled up into the drive-thru lane, and expressed the fact that I was thrilled to the guy on the other end of the speaker before I would let him take my order.


“I used to live in Nebraska where there are tons of awesome Mexican fast food places, and there are none here, so I’m so excited to find a Taco John’s here!” I babbled to him as he took my money. “Well, we’ll be here whenever you want to come,” he said, handing over my food. I did a little dance before I pulled out of the parking lot, my mouth full of Potato Olés.


I called my mother. She was more sympathetic to my excitement than my husband had been. “That’s great, honey!” “Nomnomnom,” I replied, disdaining a napkin in favor of brushing my hand on my jeans.


A little later as I debated whether it was a good idea to juggle driving and burrito chomping, I reflected on the impression I had made on the employees in the drive-thru. I used to work the drive-thru at Amigos (a task I enjoyed more than, say, doing the dishes), and in all my time there, I never had an experience quite like the Taco John’s employees had been through.


I had people come through the drive-thru that hadn’t had Amigos in a while and were glad to be back, but no one that was surprised to see an Amigos, unless it was surprise that there was one just down the street from the last one they’d passed: there are twenty-seven Amigos locations currently, with more than half of those in Lincoln.


Since Lincoln is a college town and college students like to drink and prowl about the city late into the night, almost all of the Amigos locations in Lincoln stay open until after the post-bar crawl food forage. I used to have tons of fun with the silly people that would come through the drive-thru late at night, laughing at their antics along with their designated driver. I can’t remember how many high fives I gave through the window.


One of my favorite drive-thru stories involves a brush with royalty. The management’s desire for their employees to connect with the customers has led to the company policy of asking for the customer’s name, which makes sense in the dining room since you can actually see the person and match their name with their face. I never understood asking for a person’s name in the drive-thru. It was just as ridiculous as if we had been ordered to ask what kind of car they were driving. So after a stern talking to by a manager who I knew agreed with me about the policy but had to enforce it anyway, I was manning the drive-thru register when a vehicle pulled up. “Welcome to Amigos/Kings Classic...” I paused to sigh, “...can I get a name for your ticket?” “Henry the Eighth!” the voice on the other end replied. I couldn’t help laughing: “What can I get for you, your Majesty?”


There were fun people, but there were crazy people, too. People that came through on their bicyles demanding to be served even though there were “NO BICYCLES” signs clearly posted on the windows and next to the menu signs; people that would demand more chicken on their salad, no matter how the manager tried to explain that the amount of chicken on their salad was the same as everyone got; and people that would try to talk us into giving us extra sides of Ranch for free, and would sit there until we threatened to call the cops because they were holding up the line.


As I chomped into the deliciousness of my burrito, I realized: I’m Crazy Drive-Thru Lady. I could just imagine the lunch crew telling the story of my visit to the manager coming in to cover the dinner shift: “She was just so excited, it was pretty hilarious,” one would say. “I saw her dancing after she pulled up to the second window,” another would add.


I paused to sip at my drink and decided that I do not mind being Crazy Drive-Thru Lady. There is no reason why I should not be excited at being able to have a taste of home that I miss so much. And today I discovered that there will soon be a new Taco John’s location opening just ten miles away in Longmont, CO. I will be excited to go there when it opens and to have it close enough to my house to cruise by and grab it whenever I have a craving for it. I look forward to becoming the regular who orders a #5 and always tells whoever’s in the drive-thru that she is so glad to have them nearby. Even if they think I’m crazy.