I travel some.

I speak at various functions all around the country.

When I talk in some of the states in the southern parts of this fine country—places like Florida, Texas, Arizona, Nevada, and California—I get the same question.

“Minnesota? You’re really from Minnesota?” asks a man from a state hotter than a fry cook’s knuckle.

Are there people who lie about such things? Are there folks from other states who are such social climbers that they attempt to pass themselves off as Minnesotans?

I was born and raised in Minnesota. I love the Gopher State. I live a mile from where I was born. I have Minnesota between my toes. I proudly proclaim that I am a Minnesotan. Minnesota is my Motherland.

The Southerner gets a pained look on his face before saying, “Oh, the weather there.” This is uttered with the look of someone smelling a skunk. I see a cartoon bubble over his head picturing fireplaces flying south for the winter.

I reply with a clever, “Uffda!” This is a mistake because the other person has no idea what that means. I’m not sure myself.

“Uffda?” is the typical response. “What does that mean?”

I lie. I say that “uffda” is our state motto. My conscience bothers me. I follow my lie with the truth as I see it. I tell him that “uffda” is what we say when something good happens. “Uffda,” on the other hand, is what we say when something bad happens. And “uffda” is what we say when nothing at all is happening.

This recalls a previous statement from my Southerner. “Oh, the weather there.” I know that he is picturing me parking my dogsled outside the igloo.

I narrowly avoid saying “Uffda,” once again.

“Yes, we do have weather in Minnesota. We get weather almost every day in Minnesota. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember a single day that we didn’t have weather in Minnesota. Good point.” I want to tell him that the snow usually melts by August, but I bite my tongue.

“And you have large mosquitoes?” He has an inquiring mind.

“There are mosquitoes,” I admit. “One landed at Hartland International Airport the other day and the workers pumped 600 gallons of jet fuel into it before they realized that it was a mid-sized skeeter. The good news is that there aren’t many mosquitoes in January.”

Then my southern friend says, “But it must be something to live in Minnesota. Those tall pine trees stretching toward the stars. Those deep, crystal-clear lakes where you haul out muskies the size of rowboats. That must be something.”

I agree that it must be something, but inform him that I don’t live in that part of the state. I add that it’s a big state, and I live near the coast of Iowa.

“The coast of Iowa?” My Southern pal asks, “What’s that like?”

“It’s about like Iowa,” I answer. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I love Iowa. I am opposed to building a wall across the Iowa border. My father moved his family from Iowa to southern Minnesota in the hopes of raising the IQ of both states.

“How is it like Iowa?” the questioning continues.

“It’s corn, beans, corn, beans, corn, beans, corn, beans, small town. Corn, beans, corn, beans, corn, beans, corn, beans, small town.”

“So you raise corn and beans there?” I’m asked. It’s like the Spanish Inquisition.

“We do,” I reply.

“I’ll bet you raise the best corn in the world, don’t you?”

It’s a reasonable question. No matter where I go, they have the best of something there. It may be the world’s biggest wad of gum or the world’s longest nose hair, but, by gum, it’s the best there is anywhere.

I explain that we don’t raise the best corn in the world—close to it—but not the best.

“Oh, I’ll bet you raise the best soybeans on earth, then. Right?”

I respond apologetically. “No,” I say, “not the best, but we have people working on that. Maybe one day, we’ll grow the best beans in the world.”

“Then what do you raise the best of near the coast of Iowa?”

I don’t have to think for a moment.

“We have the best people on earth.”

I love running into the good people I know in a grocery store. I love seeing familiar faces at fundraisers. I love hearing friendly voices on the other end of the phone line. I live in Minnesota because I know what’s good for me.

I don’t stay here for the weather. There are places with better climates. I stay here because you, good reader, have made this the very best place to live.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.