1. I have a thing for old cities, for small towns, and for small towns that used to be old cities. These places are found in the Midwestern United States, mostly along important rivers like the Mississippi and the Platte. These places are now rural ghost towns, and empty buildings stand like statues or sentries watching guard over the now sleepy residual residents. Faint outlines of emblems on their sides tell the history, like Steel Works, or Hotel, or Button Factory. Railroads always intersect in these places, and old men and women in small frame houses regale travelers with stories of glories past; presidents who stayed, legislation won, natural disasters that spelled the end of a way of life, and progress that will surely lead to utter despair. New development in these towns is both rare and abhorrent, and even I shake my head when I pass a franchise restaurant going in where a legendary town saloon used to be. Housing prices are, and will forever be, unimaginably low; but then, so will wages. There is no homelessness in small towns, where the cost of living is low enough that ideals like community, family, and perseverance actually matter and work.
2. There are certain places that haunt my memory, and most of these are in the middle of the country. The states of Iowa and Nebraska both hold a special place in my heart, and I find myself continually revisiting them and revising my thoughts on them. There are demons that must be exorcised, dragons that must be slain, and memories that cannot be quieted, all lurking in dark corners of small Midwestern towns whose streets I have spent more time on than I care to fully remember. These are dream streets, labeled county roads, and they lead to understated buildings and quiet people. They have not changed, but I have. These old places at once frustrate me and fascinate me. They intrigue me and scare me. They will be here when I am not, they call me back despite the fact that I seek more. I sleep well in the Midwest. I've trudged through snow up to my knees, and have sweltered in the humid summer. The sky turns green and yellow before a storm in the Midwest, and I've yet to see that occur elsewhere. My friends and family accept me here quietly, warmly, yet with a sense of wariness. These towns are full of Pontiacs and Wal-Marts, heavy clouds and Methodists. Yet they are beautiful, and if you blink back tears, it's possible to miss them entirely.
3. I am at a halfway point in my travels, and keep thinking that a sunset or a long drive down an empty road will clear my mind, but instead the opposite is taking place. My thoughts are muddled and my values shaken. There is so much to see, so much to do, and so much heartbreaking beauty in this country. I've thought of several avenues of anthropological research on this trip, including truck stops, regional food, roadside attractions, national parks, and historical points of interest. I can't shake the feeling that sometimes the best, most interesting things, are found in one's own backyard.... and by taking the time to explore this country, some of my faith in America, old and new, has been restored.
The Mississippi River runs through Muscatine, Iowa, formerly an industrial city famous for a button factory and luxury hotels along the riverfront. The town now specializes in processing corn for animal feed, and the hotels have all closed. Tourism stopped here a long time ago.
Railroads are often more well-maintained than roads in the Midwest, as they connect freightways from the east coast to the west. More rail cars than passenger cars pass through this area daily.
Corn, the primary cash commodity in the midwest, damn near glows in the morning sun. Miles upon miles of.... corn.
On a beautiful autumn day in the Midwest, the absolute best way to spend time is on a swing under showers of falling red and gold leaves, wrapped in a sweater with hot coffee in hand. Deep breath....
This was poetic, Chrisanna.
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