Eyes Westward

I was thinking about Ohio this morning. In particular, the little town where my paternal grandmother grew up. It's called Frenchtown. The Catholic parish there still has a sign next to the door: "Sancte Famille." I took a picture of my son standing next to it. He must have been about four at the time. It's around here somewhere...

Still homesick, I wandered aimlessly around the blogosphere, beyond the Midwest and into the Great Plains, where the buffalo roam -- or at least where they used to. It was there that I met a wise man from North Dakota, who had a list of fifteen things for New Yorkers or Californians to remember when visiting his neck of the woods:

"Don't order filet mignon or pasta primavera at Kroll's Kitchen. It's a diner. They serve breakfast 24 hours a day. Let them cook something they know. If you upset the ladies in the kitchen, they'll kick your..."

It gets better.