MN: From the Perspective of a Nomad, Part 9

Well, it seems my time in Minnesota will qualify this state as #2 on the list of shortest-length-of-time-I’ve-lived-here, beating Indiana by a mere six months. Maybe it’s something about mid-western states…

I figured I’d round this series off to an even 10 parts. (If you’ve ever seen the show Monk you’ll know why round numbers are so very important.) So, I am going to come up with two more articles on the state that will be my home for less than four more months.

Thus far I have covered the holiness of the state, the unusually bland food, the local pastimes (snowmobiling, hunting, fishing and more fishing), problems with language interpretation, the amount of snow (from October to May), the infiltration of their children (who fish from the time they’re born and own boats before their able to ride a bike) and unusual botany. I think I will now describe miscellaneous phrases I’ve picked up.

First, the term “uff-da”. Now I may be spelling that wrong, and I apologize if I am (especially after I gave a small lecture on the proper way to spell “y’all” last week in the office). Along with not being sure of the spelling, I’m also not 100% sure of the meaning. They say this when they lift something heavy. Or when they find something to be overwhelming. Or when they’re surprised. Or they did something amazing. Sometimes they seem to use it for no apparent reason of all. And like the “wicket” of New England, there doesn’t seem to be any etymology or history to this term.

Secondly, a very common phrase I hear this time of year is, “Why do we live here?” That’s a very good question to ask when the temperature doesn’t get above freezing for four days in a row and 10 degrees is so warm out people go tubing in their swim trunks and t-shirts. (We have pictures at camp to prove this point.) Ironically, every time I hear this rhetorical question it comes from the lips of a native – one who was born here, has never lived elsewhere and will die here.

Lastly, the most annoying word I have discovered is “behg”. This word is actually spelled “bag”, but you wouldn’t know that when they ask you at the grocery store, “Would you like your milk in a behg?” Every time I’m asked that, I want to say with as much of a Southern drawl as I can possibly conjure up, “It’s a baaaaaag.” Thus far, I have managed to be polite, smile and say, “No, thank you.”