I can’t pretend that I know what it feels like to live in a city or state with a bad economy. I’m a privileged West Coast kid in the bustling Beehive state. I don’t know how much living somewhere else would change my political stance, but I’ve seen the effects of a dying economy in the parts of the Midwest I’ve visited. The small grocery store run out of business by that awful megalomaniac, WalMart. The canning plant laying off half its workforce because labor is cheaper elsewhere. And on top of that, the young people who can rebuild the town are leaving for bigger cities and seemingly bigger experiences.
Maybe if I was living it every day, I would understand the desperation, the desire for radical change better. But I don’t, and so it continues to baffle me.
Until then, I’m trying to remember and capture all the things that made me fall in love with this section of the country in the first place. Let’s take a cliché trip down memory lane.
I first intentionally visited the Midwest in 2010. It took 16 long hours driving through the windy hellscape that’s I-80 in Wyoming, and the flat brown of Nebraska, but everything changed when we hit Iowa. There were corn stalks, thick and stick straight like sentinels, for miles. Endless blue green and yellow, with flashes of red-painted wood – everything was straight out of some Norman Rockwell Americana.
I first intentionally visited the Midwest in 2010. It took 16 long hours driving through the windy hellscape that’s I-80 in Wyoming, and the flat brown of Nebraska, but everything changed when we hit Iowa. There were corn stalks, thick and stick straight like sentinels, for miles. Endless blue green and yellow, with flashes of red-painted wood – everything was straight out of some Norman Rockwell Americana.
When we stopped for a night in Des Moines, I was instantly charmed by how friendly everyone was. Even the climate was friendlier – fragrant and slightly sticky and so, so good for my desert skin. Everything was green and in bloom. When the sun went down, the fireflies came out, glowing brighter than I ever would’ve imagined.
And then, when I didn’t think things could get better, I ended up on the plains of Illinois. Whatever I’d felt in Iowa was amplified. We’d ended up on a 100-acre farm, with even more cornfields that we could actually run through. We had it all – ponds to jump in, tractors to ride, hay bales to sit on and miles of open country to explore. This was paradise.
On one of our first nights at the farm, there was a thunderstorm, unlike anything I’ve experienced. The sky turned yellow and everyone braced for tornado sirens that (thankfully) never came. Within twenty minutes, the grass was full of ankle-deep puddles. We ran outside, washed our hair in the rain, and then splashed through the puddles.
Another night, the Fourth of July, we sat on top of scratchy haybales, drinking lukewarm beer, and watched the fireworks put on by the neighbors across the street. They owned the town’s butcher shop, and apparently spent all extra profit on a pyrotechnics display that rivaled all other displays I’ve seen. It was booming, it was free, and it was private. When the smoke and fireworks faded, we stayed on those hay bales, pointing out constellations and watching the fireflies dance through the fields.
I fell in love with my husband on that first trip to the Midwest, and we’ve gone back nearly every summer since we got married. It’s not always glamorous. Here’s an incomprehensive list of real things I’ve witnessed on the farm:
On one of our first nights at the farm, there was a thunderstorm, unlike anything I’ve experienced. The sky turned yellow and everyone braced for tornado sirens that (thankfully) never came. Within twenty minutes, the grass was full of ankle-deep puddles. We ran outside, washed our hair in the rain, and then splashed through the puddles.
Another night, the Fourth of July, we sat on top of scratchy haybales, drinking lukewarm beer, and watched the fireworks put on by the neighbors across the street. They owned the town’s butcher shop, and apparently spent all extra profit on a pyrotechnics display that rivaled all other displays I’ve seen. It was booming, it was free, and it was private. When the smoke and fireworks faded, we stayed on those hay bales, pointing out constellations and watching the fireflies dance through the fields.
I fell in love with my husband on that first trip to the Midwest, and we’ve gone back nearly every summer since we got married. It’s not always glamorous. Here’s an incomprehensive list of real things I’ve witnessed on the farm:
- A horse being castrated
- A cat getting caught in a raccoon trap
- A violent fist fight
- A swarm (Colony? Herd? Drove?) of bats trying to get through the window I was sitting in
But there’s also too much good to name it all:
- Harvesting the purest clover honey from beehives
- Donkeys rolling in the dirt
- Kisses from sandpapery calf tongues
- Sunsets with no buildings in the way for miles
- Fresh-pressed apple cider and homegrown popcorn kernels
It feels, in a sense, like going home – except I’ve never lived east of Salt Lake City. There’s no internet on the farm, and you can go days at a time without traveling more than five miles. Each trip feels like a reset button.
So, while I may not understand the thinking of the Midwest, I understand its appeal, and I understand why you’d want to fight for it.
And I can’t wait to go back.
And I can’t wait to go back.
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