With all the talk in politics this week about "small town America," I was interested to read this article this morning in the New York Times. It's about the changing face of Iowa farms. (Be sure to click on the interactive map when you read that article; several small towns are spotlighted with 2 minute video clips and the pictures ARE Iowa - they are gorgeous).
One reason it caught my eye is because Steve is from Iowa and his family has been farming in Iowa for years. Steve's brother now runs the family farm that Steve and his brother and sisters grew up on in Grand River, Iowa; Steve's parents ran it before him and the grandparents before that. But farming is not what it used to be. I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on farming or even know much about it, but I know that Iowa is beautiful country.
The first time I went to visit Iowa I was thinking "This is just going to be flat cornfields as far as the eye can see." I don't get out much. Not well travelled. I was stunned when I saw Iowa. Rolling hills. Every shade of green in the crayon box. Cows, gravel roads, Amish people, and barns. Barns of all types, styles and ages. There are preservation movements for many of the old barns because barns today are not what they used to be either. Equipment is different; needs are different.
One of the many things I love about Iowa is that midwestern, all-American way of life. Sure, you get into Des Moines or one of the other cities and you can be just as big-city as Dallas or anywhere else. But I like the small towns. I love Lamoni with its little shops, its public library and everybody-knows-everybody else way of life. I love Villisca with its town square with the war memorial and the tornado siren. I love Mount Ayr with its old movie theater and friendly people. Everywhere you go Ameican flags are proudly waving in the breeze. I haven't spent lots of time there, but there's something about Iowa and those small towns that makes you feel safe and like you are at home.
I know that lots of people who would never consider living in a place where there was no huge art museum or did not have a huge concert or sports venue. And we need those things. But in Iowa, I'm more than happy to sit around the fire pit in Sheryl's back yard cooking hotdogs over the open fire. I'm more than happy to light the citronella candles as the fireflies come out and the evening air holds a perpetual chill; listen closely and you hear the clip clop of the Amish heading home from selling baskets and jelly on the side of the road. You feel every nerve ending in your body relax as you sit there and listen to the low voices visiting, talking over fences, recounting their day while you gently rock back and forth in the patio swing.
