Sacred Cows, and scared ones too?

I grew up in rural Minnesota and when I was 17 my family moved to Denver.  My cartoon bubble was filled with all manner of amusing scenes: me getting a full ride scholarship to DU where I’d captain the Pioneers hockey team, me moving into the penthouse atop the Writers Square building in downtown Denver…etc.   Anyway, after a few years and more than that many reality ‘invitations’ I decided that this busy, dusty cow town was no place for me, besides I had an offer I couldn’t refuse: come home to Minnesota and help in the family painting business!  I thought to myself (as I was fond of thinking), ‘what could go wrong?’ (fast forward; I’m even more fond of that saying now, but now it’s more tongue-in-cheek, like a audible call-out…a verbal shrunken-head to deter anything from actually going wrong). But I digress, and I did move back to Minnesota.

For those many of you who aren’t and don’t know it; Minnesota is a place for Minnesotans.  If you’re not one a good second talent would be Nordic, Germanic, Swede or Finnish ancestry – which in most cases makes you one anyway  – or some other proxy for the memetic evolution that allows normal people to thrive in sub-arctic conditions for the better part of two quarters  each year…it’s a skill or affliction, depending on your perspective.  In any case, I invited my wife to go to Minnesota and join the family business, she agreed.   Nine years on and we both took it back, and moved back to Denver…

to be continued in the next issue of the Painters Rag.

 

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