It has to start somewhere.

I had a yard sale this past weekend, (a side income for most small town folk), it was successful; meaning that I made more than the ad price and didn't have to worry about the weather because it was indoors. During the sale one of my column readers, who mistook me for another columnist, stated, "you know you should really write a Yooper column and advertise for those gone south Yoopers." Once she figured out that I wasn't that guy from Rock but rather the father of three from Hubbell she persisted even more. What would I write about? She said, "you know, Yooper stuff". What's Yooper stuff? "You know, how we live, what we eat, drink, and stuff we do." First off if you don't know what a Yooper is let me enlighten you now so that you can either stop reading or read more. A Yooper is a person who was born and raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, born and raised is the key, if you moved here forty years ago you're still a transplant. Yoopers "go mall" and eat pasties. Yoopers work hard and relax even harder. A Yooper is someone who loves the fact that winter starts at Halloween and ends on Memorial Day give or take a month. I've fought against being called a Yooper because I was born and raised to believe that you can be anything you want to be so to me being a Yooper meant that I didn't have a choice; how wrong I was. What it means is that if you're stuck in a ditch someone will stop and help you out and it won't cost you anything. It means if you're too broke to go for a beer someone will bring one to you. It means you're part of a large family that panks their snow, wears a chook and fishes out of a creek. I'm a Yooper and if you are too check back now and again and I might just write something you like.