@Zincy
Near the shores of Otchipwe-kitchi-gami, the shining Big-Sea-Water. Southward through the neighboring forest passed in golden swarms the ahmo, passed the bees, the honey-makers, burning, singing in the sunshine.
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, coming nearer, nearer, nearer. Was it shingebis the diver? Or the pelican, the shada? Or the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah? Or the white goose, waw-be-wana, with the water dripping, flashing, from it’s glossy neck and feathers?
It was neither goose nor diver, neither pelican nor heron, o’er the water floating, flying, through the shining mist of morning, but a birch canoe with paddles, rising, sinking on the water, dripping, flashing in the sunshine. And in it came Zebulon onto Hahawakpa.
Blessed Hahawakpa, where the water fell, where the river turned, where Dakota and Ojibwe shared pipe and song, stood Pierre “Pig’s Eyes” Parrant, who claimed the land all around.
Now, where sweet Earth dare an envious shade to interpose Cynthia’s shining orb, Heav’n doth cheer when each day doth close.
Sheboygan
Ah, the Malibu of the Midwest. I’ve never been there, but they tell me it’s nice. I’m about as far away as you can get from there and not be in a different state. Legally, I’m in Minneapolis. Physically, I’m not.
Boundaries get confusing when your neighboring municipal districts have more people than the freaking state.
You might know us as Westconsin. We ceded from the state about 30 years ago, and have been ever so happy ever since.
