Editorial page editor: About my birth certificate

That's my true history, and I'm willing to prove it to anyone who has doubts. Including me.

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I'm tired of the distraction and have decided to release my birth certificate to anyone who would like to review it.

For years my Minnesota friends and professional contacts have questioned my claim that I was born in Cloquet, Minn. -- a town best known for paper mills and Jessica Lange.

My older brothers used to deny it, too, saying I was not really part of the family but had been left in a basket on the front porch. What jokesters.

I left the state at age 3 when my father, also a Minnesota native, got a newspaper job in Milwaukee.

I grew up wearing green-and-gold Bart Starr pajamas and watched dozens of bad University of Wisconsin football teams at Camp Randall stadium before finally becoming a student at that great institution in 1978.

(I earned a degree, too, even though I still have dreams that I failed the two-credit course Weather for Winter Sports.)

I was thrilled to come home -- yes, home -- in 1989 to take a job in Minneapolis, but I didn't lose my deep affection for the Packers and Badgers when I crossed the border.

And because I'm open about that affliction, I've run into some local skeptics on the birthplace issue.

I didn't have a copy of the birth certificate readily available to post with this item at StarTribune.com, but I have it in a box somewhere and believe the small footprint really is my own.

I know the hospital exists, too, because I see it each summer on my way to Ely with my family. It's just past Gordy's Hi-Hat, where we always grab a cheeseburger.

I've got to admit I've never stopped at the hospital to ask for my records. Come to think of it, I've never checked with the Carlton County Courthouse, either. And that footprint really is pretty small ...

Maybe my brothers were right all along. Cruel, but right.

Maybe that explains why my parents "had" me in their early 40s -- an advanced age to have kids in the late 1950s. They always did seem protective of that one wicker basket.

I'm feeling a little sick to my stomach right now, and it has nothing to do with Gordy's. I wanted to put this crazy speculation to rest, but now even I'm not sure where I was born.

I guess I know how the president was feeling before Donald Trump helped him get to the bottom of things this week. Or did he?

Scott Gillespie is the Star Tribune's editorial page editor.

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