Hello from the farm,
The reality of typing that is setting in as I look out the windows of my cousin’s farm house. I see harvested fields as far as the eye can see. Gone are the mountains and the topography of the Poconos, where I have spent (in total) about a third of my life. Indeed, looking that up, I have spent more time in Pennsylvania than I have in my home state, the place I call home. That was a bit of a shock when I thought about it. Certainly the number of people I know most intimately, have spent the most time with, and have shared more than just moments with are far more numerous than my Iowa connections, and yet those Iowa connections know the boy I was. Recently, as many know, I posted my high school senior picture, I was certainly a youngster. That summer I worked two jobs and lived at my grandmother’s house in Leeds. It was the beginning of when I started to detach from my adopted home. It was the genesis of when I began a journey that still continues, though much has been achieved. I realized for the first time, and to a great degree that I felt alone, as if I had no home. Certainly I had a house in which I stayed, and a family (or people) around me every day. At that time, I am not sure I could articulate what I can now. What I knew is I spent much of my time walking gingerly . . . treading lightly to avoid the wrath of the mother in the house. Too often I failed, but I learned to remove myself even though present. That senior year I was learning to navigate a new school, finishing my studies, and trying to imagine what post-graduation would bring.
Now it is more than a half century later. That reality in itself is a bit mind boggling. My perception of the world, of my life, and yes, my memories of Iowa are very different from that 16-17 year old child, and indeed, I was a child. When I take the time to ponder my Iowa departure, it was a time to run away. It was a time of searching and trying to figure out where I fit, where I belonged, and perhaps if I belonged anywhere at all. One of the reoccurring threads in my blog is having a sense of place. Iowa is home for me, but what makes it so? It is about more than geography, and it is certainly more than experience. As I come back, I wonder how I fit into this more rural location, what a country song refers to as a fly-over state. Sioux City, when growing up was the 2nd or 3rd largest city in the state. I am not sure where it stands now, but I am sure the Quad Cities, Cedar Rapids, and, of course, Des Moines are larger. And while I did some work on farms, I was not a farm kid. And yet, in the few days here, I am feeling comfortable, relaxed, and still focused.
Today, the bug is off the dolly; the dolly is in the horse barn, and the bus is sitting outside it’s soon to be home for the next months. The first few days of administrative necessity is done and it seems all those things are managed. There are some things like Starlink, that has been activated and need to be set up. There is the cleaning out and rearranging the shed (Audrie’s temporary home) to prepare the build space, and there is the actual unloading of the bus. All of that will happen over the next couple days . . .
A couple days have passed and I am still working on the project above. Hopefully today, but since I last worked on this post, I have driven to Waukesha, WI, back to Menomonie, and at the end of the week, I am back in Mallard. Completing some visits, surprising long-time friends, sharing times in a cemetery, and reminiscing were all parts of the last few days. It was (appropriate for the time of year) a cornucopia of events, emotions, and experiences. I did experience, and it was emotional for me, the new movie, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Spy, Assassin. It is an incredible film that does a really masterful job of managing the complexity of Bonhoeffer’s life, theology, and choices. Of course, writing a dissertation about him affects my perspective. For those who do not know of Bonhoeffer, it might be easier to misinterpret to fall into some particular perspective of his work and intention.
Much of what I am experiencing, not only in my recent trip, but in my daily existence, seems to be a full-circle return to my roots, not just in multiple geographic places, but through people, in my emotions, or likewise in some of my wrapping it all together experientially. Additionally, in the midst of it all, we have less than 40 days left in a calendar year. My return to Iowa was a possibility at the beginning of the year, and imagining travel was also rattling around in the ether of possibility, but the decision to buy a shuttle and embark on a bus build was not really anywhere in my thought process. I will admit I am both excited and overwhelmed by such a process. I can appreciate the space needed to undertake such a project, and preparing both in terms of tools and physical space is what I am working on this week. Even arranging tools in a way to expedite my work is part of my consideration. I probably need to purchase a couple things to manage safety also. A good pair of wrap-around safety googles are a first piece. Considering a good pair of coveralls to save on daily clothing too. As I have noted, I am treading in new waters, feeling a little like dog paddling.
As I continue to write from the Iowa cornfield, now dotted with turbines, I will be going to my brother’s side of the family for the Thanksgiving holiday. Earlier this year, I stayed at my sister-in-law’s home. There was a moment as I sat in her dining room, at my grandmother’s dining room table, looking at the buffet I remembered as a child. I will be around that table this week, and that connection to the earliest moments of my life will not go unnoticed. Leeds, and 4547, as it was known by my grandmother’s elder , sister, are my first memories of life, even though I was probably close to two. It was the home where I felt more loved, cared for, and safe than any other time in my life. That table and the people gathered around it are perhaps my most precious recollections of my entire childhood, if not my life. The evocation of drives to the South Dakota farm known as Happy Acres (ironic I just connected it to calling my house in Bloom the Acre) for holidays or vacations are important to me as I find myself back in rural America. There is the recollection of a 1957 Chevy blowing a piston on the way to Volin, South Dakota (I think that might have been one of the last Chevrolets my father ever owned.). There are other significant growing-events that are swirling through my head at the moment, but they bring joy as I consider my Midwestern roots. Perhaps the difference, besides the obvious ones of time or aging, is the appreciation I have that was not anything that occurs in the moment. As we gather, I am reminded of those I know who might spend this week somewhat isolated, feeling less than thankful. It reminds me that our world can be difficult; it can be tough and seemingly uncaring. There are moments we do not respond as thoughtfully, productively, helpfully as we might or should. As I return to my roots, there are those times I am unsure of the path, unprepared for what is to come, but returned I have. Whether I am a prodigal is perhaps up for debate, but it’s nice to be home.
Thanks as always for reading,
Michael
thewritingprofessor55 