If Nick Barnett Met Ernest Hemingway

We all know from Twitter that Nick Barnett is no Ernest Hemingway. But if he was, we would have one great adventure surrounding his 4th of July weekend.

I think it would go something like this...

The Green Hills of Green Bay

By: Nick Barnett

Green Bay can influence ones verve like no other place on earth. The morning of July 1st, 2009 was hardly an exception. The sunrise had just begun to reach the top of the kopjes (rocky outcrops like islands strewn across the Fox River) casting morning shadow over their tiny little wildlife hamlets, each sunbeam claiming a separate bedfellow as if a thousand suns had spawned from one. A more virginal breath of air cannot be taken until one has filled their nostrils on the Wisconsin northland. It is purity in its rawest form, and takes me back to my childhood where we would get up early on Sunday morning, running outside to bang hip-hop on the streets of Fontana.

In retrospect, I can hardly figure my initial reluctance to a member of our neighborhood tribe as he asked me to move my trailer off of the street. One would expect that I would have been eager to oblige his request, but bringing me a copy of the village ordinances was hardly the way to go about it. I vowed to hold off moving the eyesore from the pathway for a couple of days, more so out of spite than genuine anger. However, I felt my disinclination justified at the time and had remained skeptical and equally diffident right up until that next morning.

The next day I thought back to my arrival in Green Bay, and recalled that July was the season of the family cookout in Wisconsin, and I begrudgingly decided to move the trailer from the main road onto a smaller dirt pathway. Although the rains had not been overly heavy, the road was littered with potholes, and we only made it a short way before we ran into nuisance. My truck "Big Red" was overweight, and as the road became steeper, the mud left us slipping as we climbed. I had to get out and cut brush to lie under the wheels while the others were made to push. With no possibility of going backward, we continued to go through the motions until we reached the top of the hill, leaving me covered in mud and soaked through before my adventure had even begun.

Without warning, the hitch, too loose at the vehicle, gave way suddenly, right in the middle of the village at the time of heaviest wear. It was at this moment I knew I should have left the task, as it was well into the evening before I reached my destination, and I could do little more than collapse for a few hours of much needed rest.

After a sound nights respite, I set out to collect a quantity of fireworks. As I approached the Runway Fireworks village, one mile west of the Oneida nation tribe, I was introduced to Dean, their leader. Dean was an accomplished and well known guide for fireworks in these parts, spending countless hours perfecting his craft in the backroom of his outpost. Although I did not have much to add to our conversations, I found it captivating to hear him tell stories of the holidays past, recounting the beauty of each and every boom stick he showed me. I could picture the splendor of my gathering already, as the children would run screaming into the tall grass, hiding, only to peek their heads out minutes later and return for more.

After finishing my barter with chief Dean, I was feeling the airy swell of happiness. I proceeded into the village and gathered a small bag, some items necessary for cooking, and all the other miscellaneous supplies we would need for our celebration. Big Red was packed tightly, and I was ecstatic as we finally reached our home destination. I had been eager most of the day to continue my charity work on Twitter, but my real target, was the former attire of renowned musical artist Michael Jackson

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