Driving to Iowa

Drove to Iowa and back this past weekend. I know many of you are asking yourself, "So what's the big deal? Iowa's only a 3 or 4 hour drive from Chicago. Not a bad drive." Are you kidding me? Where I go is technically in Iowa, but if it were any further north it would be in Minnesota. Where I go is so far into Central Iowa that if I went any further I would be in Western Iowa and verging on Nebraska. Where I go is a two hour drive directly south of Minneapolis. It is home to my in-laws and Grain Millers, the largest oat processing plant this side of the asteroid belt. They make oat stuff for Quaker and other assorted oat product companies. We're talking about Saint Ansgar, Iowa. Who knew that Norwegians had so many saints? Just when I'd learned about Saint Olaf, along comes this Saint Ansgar dude.

Anyway, I have been married to Babs for 23 years now. We've been living together for 25 years, but that's another story. What that means is that I have driven to Iowa so many times that I could do it in my sleep. Come to think of it I probably have, any number of times. Not only do I know the primary route to Saint Ansgar, Iowa, but I know a fairly sizable number of alternate routes for those times when I'm feeling just a little tired of driving down that same highway one more time. I know how to get there by going through Wisconsin and Minnesota. I know how to get there by leaving Chicago on I-90 or I-88. I know how to get there by going through the Quad Cities, through Dubuque, or by going through LaCrosse. I know how to get there by at least 3 different routes leading from Minneapolis there.

This, my friends, is love. Oh it is not love of Iowa. It is not love of little St. Ansgar, population 1000. This is love of a woman who hails from this town and must return periodically to renew her Iowan credentials and family obligation checklist. Oddly enough, I do not return to my own home town in Arkansas nearly so often. Last time I was there, I attempted to show my lovely bride around the area, and it had been so long that I scarcely knew where I was going. Everything looked different. I hadn't been there in a very long time. Whatever for? Babs and I have carved out a perfectly lovely life in Chicago, and have traveled the world. My Arky credentials have lapsed, I fear, and I have no desire to renew them. My mother and father passed away many years ago, and I have no reason to go anymore.

Babs's parents, on the other hand, just keep on going and going and going, like elderly Energizer bunnies. We return to Iowa again and again, at Thanksgiving, at Christmas, on July 4th, Memorial Days, Labor Days, odd birthdays, when there are assorted family crises,........ I know the major players in St. Ansgar by name. I know them better than I know the people I grew up with and have seen once since graduation, at a 40 year class reunion. I do not keep up with them on Facebook. I see them face to face, at least once a year, usually more often.

St. Ansgar is quintessential small town America. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone knows everyone else's business. Everyone talks about everyone else, incessantly. Walk down the street when visiting, and even if someone passing by doesn't know you, they wave. Why? Because they know everyone and they think they should know you too, even if they don't. Wave back. It's the friendly thing to do.

People hold small town America up on a pedestal, as the model for the good life. It's a place where it's safe to raise children. It's a place where America is at its best. Right? If you can find anyone. Babs and I live in Chicago and we walk all over the place all the time. There are people everywhere. Go to St. Ansgar and walk around the streets and its deserted. Nobody is outside. Nobody is on the streets. It took me several years and many trips to get accustomed to, but it's actually possible to walk down the street, not on the sidewalk mind you, but in the middle of the street, literally. No one will run over you. There's nobody there. Where are they? Inside their houses hiding behind the curtains looking out at the weirdos walking down the street enjoying themselves, and wondering all the while, "Who the hell is that? Why are they outside walking around instead of staying inside and watching '60 Minutes' like everyone else?"

Driving to Iowa is a Midwestern experience. One can drive across Illinois and Iowa. One can drive across Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa. Still, one has to drive across stretches of America that are all rural, that are all farmbelt. What does one see? Corn, soybeans, hogs, dairy cattle, and the occasional dead deer on the side of the road. If you get off the beaten path, you may also see an emu, a llama, a bison, or maybe an elk. In Wisconsin you can see some hills and the occasional landform that might qualify for a smallish mountain. In Western Illinois, you might see President Grant's home and a lot of antiques and touristy stuff. For the most part, however, what you will see is miles and miles of flat farmland and straight roads.

While driving to Iowa on the most recent trip, the following occurred to me:

Flying down a two lane blacktop on a straight shot highway.

Railroad tracks along the side heading western, my way.

Ditches, trees, and stands of bushes separate roads and cornfields.

Two story white farmhouses overlooking farm yields.

Moving past. Moving fast.

Road is flat. Road is where it's at.

Flying down a two lane blacktop on a straight shot highway.

The road is mesmerizing. The drive is straight and flat. There is more to the poem and there is music that will go with it. There is more to the drive, and there is more to the visit in St. Ansgar. This, although, is my little immediate impression of the experience, driving to Iowa. Take it for what it's worth.