Why do we refer to members of the Unicameral as senators? A senator such as our U.S. senators represents an entire state.

Members of the Nebraska Unicameral represent a district within the state, and seem to dedicate the majority, if not all their time, to matters pertaining only to their district. In reality, it seems they cater only to those who can vote for them.

I have discovered that if you ask a "state senator" outside your district for advice, assistance, help or answer to a question, you most often receive no response. If you have Internet, you might receive an automated response that your message/concern has been received. No other response.

I propose that since our current "state senators" have so much time to spend on such issues as lettering on vehicle license plates, and other such significant matters, that perhaps they set aside some time to debate and eventually change their title from "state senator" to "district representative of the Unicameral," which in my opinion wold be a much more fiting title. Especially since several now serving while appearing on NET2 appear as though they are not aware that there exists a Nebraska west of Buffalo County.

Jack Sample

Wood River

Cut daylight-saving time in half

Is there a reason why we don't spring ahead 30 minutes instead of an hour? Then it would be left there and everyone would be happy. I'm sure there must be something wrong with the idea because it sounds too simple.

Lila Albin

Polk

I-80 exit not really a good thing

This is an update on the Locust Street I-80 exit, which is now a stented red carpet corridor that removed seemly cottonwood tree plaque and now soon-to-be-completed four-lane bowling alley that hurls traffic in both directions.

In addition, there is the gutter ball highway shoulder that favors distinct zones for special procedures and uses.

The supernanny time-out zone for animated conversations of denial and innocence to hard-sell state troopers, involving all sorts of traffic infractions. Then there are the runaways in scattered quail flight to end in rapidly deteriorating situations which literally go to the dogs.

The tardy 'I'll be a little late zone" for automotive malfunctions of balking cars pushing 100,000 mile warranties with a hoped for Triple AAA tow assist.

Then you notice the hurry-scurry and real life drama of a farmer's life. The rapid oncoming blinking caution-lighted tractor cab, the furtive glance and concern of the operator towing a former yawning overwidth implement that had undergone a neat hydraulic tummy tuck for highway transport. On closer observation, one can't help but notice the pained expression to be able to safely exit into a nearby farmer's lane or minimum tillage cornfield.

I recall when my Holstein milk cows escorted themselves in single file along the east untraveled shoulder and across the bridge twice daily at chore time. My family homesteaded in a pasture, which is now part of the G.I. well field that the cows grazed in during the day.

The outer ditch is the wrecker zone, which unfortunately composes traumatic and profound traffic rescue events.

There are vehicles of all kinds, models and description. The run-of-the-mill family cars and Ford tough pickups, a puddle jumper or two in the mix, a toned-down version of a monster truck wannabe, funeral processions including stopped motorists in solemn respect for the deceased, ambulances, fire trucks and law enforcement officers in full siren, out-of-state-see-America-first tour buses with half-drawn window blinds fresh from recent freaked-out passage through lofty mountain splendor somewhat impassive indifferences to our ho-hum scenery of Nebraska's fruited plain, flashy motorcycles with equally flashy leather-clad drivers, assorted grain trucks, endless double-decker livestock trucks headed for Swift packing plant on the last roundup for their cargo. If all the cattle trucks' end gates were lifted on cue, this countryside would rival the glory days of Charlie Goodnight trail drives from Texas to railheads up north, large Wal-Mart trucks packed with out-sourced stuff from shoes to monkey wrenches, motor coaches coupled to ball and chain mini cars. The occasional driver with an attitude and a super-powered sound system capable of awakening hibernating animals, plus a rank screeching American Idol muffler and finally a scrunched-down elderly citizen in a take-no-chances strapped-in seatbelt, driving a classic Buick four-door sedan stereotype.

In summer months, trash thrown from passing cars is powered into the ditch with tractor-driven weed shredders. Instead of tumbling tumbleweeds of past generations, we now have the wind-blown plastic bag equivalent stirred up by the weed shredder and relocated on fence posts and tree branches.

Professional landscapers and horticulturists are pampering newly planted trees and shrubs with an avalanche of state money to replace the beautiful trees that planted and cared for themselves.

After marshaling our mental resources to full mental alert from a hidden plateau of strength, we merge into the traffic at our mailbox. It seems most drivers have checked their angst and interstate behavior at the exit. A few, however, have some difficulty debriefing to our buttoned-down way of life at first. Some are in hurry enough to pass on the right shoulder as we signal to enter our lane.

And there it is, a bit of history, as I know of it, of a great road. Fond experiences spring to life as I leisurely stroll the shady lane of never-to-be-forgotten memories.

Clarence Rief

4463 S. Locust