In Praise of Flyover Country
There are, as I see it, two kinds of people. There are those who love to travel — people who would sooner let their drivers licenses lapse than their passports.
And then there’s me.
When I was younger, it was usually writing assignments that forced me to pack my suitcase. Now, between those airport security lines that remind me of the endless serpentines at Disneyland and airplane seats that seem to have been designed for the transporting of sardines, long distance travel has lost whatever small allure it ever had.
In fact, of all the trips I have taken in my life, trips that included such destinations as Japan, Yugoslavia, Brazil and Spain, the most memorable one took place about 20 years ago. The locale was Oxford, Nebraska. The purpose was to meet my in-laws for the first time.
Oxford is a town of about a thousand people, located in the southwest part of the state. For someone who was born in Chicago and raised in Los Angeles, it was more exotic than Osaka, Japan. When you live in a big city, it is possible to go a very long time without ever knowing your next door neighbor, so it is a major culture shock to spend a week in a town where you’re the only stranger.
Because my wife and I were staying at a motel in a town about 12 miles away, we had to rent a car. One dark night, on our way back to the Bide-a-Wee, our car suddenly broke down in the middle of farm country. Being closer to my mother-in-law’s house than to our motel, we left the car parked on the shoulder and started walking back. After about five minutes, a car headed in our direction slowed down and stopped. There were two elderly women in the car. They offered us a lift. When I asked them if they weren’t the least bit nervous about picking up strangers in the dead of night, the driver said, “We saw your car, so we knew you’d broken down, and we knew we’d come across you sooner or later.” I sat there thinking, “Toto, we’re not in California anymore.”
It turned out the good Samaritans didn’t live in Oxford, but they knew my mother-in-law, Juanita Boe, and they dropped us off at her front door.
The next unusual thing that happened is that one of my sisters-in-law immediately phoned the owner of the auto agency where we’d rented the car and chewed off his ear for sticking us with a lemon. It was past 10 p.m.. For all I know, he was already asleep, but this was Nebraska, where there is apparently no rest for the wicked.
Another night, we were a little low on gas. Because there was only one gas station in Oxford and it closed up at sundown, I was a bit concerned. But there was no reason to be. My mother-in-law checked the time and told us where the local patrolman was likely to be making his rounds. It seems he had the key to the padlock on the gas pump. Sure enough, a few minutes later, we found him driving down by the ballpark, exactly where he was supposed to be. A few minutes later, I had a full tank of gas.
One afternoon, I walked to the local grammar school to shoot baskets with my 11-year-old niece-in-law. I asked her what was the best thing about living in such a small town. She thought about it for a while and then said, “Everybody knows you.” I then asked her what the worst thing was. This time she didn’t have to think about it. “Everybody knows you.”
The girl’s mother worked part time at the local newspaper. She asked me if I’d mind being interviewed by the editor-publisher. Apparently, if a town is small enough, even a TV writer is something of a visiting celebrity.
So the next day I wandered over to the newspaper. While I sat in the editor’s office waiting for him to get back from lunch, I had a few minutes to check out my surroundings. When he showed up, I asked him if he lived four blocks up and two blocks over. He said he did, and he wondered how I happened to know that. “The other day,” I explained, “I was taking a walk when a cocker spaniel came down the driveway and started barking at me. I thought I recognized him in that family picture you have on your desk.”
So when I tell you that Oxford is a small town, you now have some idea just how small it is.
It was a very nice write-up, by the way, but I guess the guy wasn’t a big fan of Jack Webb, though, because he kept spelling “Dragnet” “Drag Net.”
My most vivid memory of Oxford, however, involves turkey. My wife had told me that her mother was a wonderful cook and had even run her own catering business for several years. Well, the first dinner we had was a beautiful roast turkey. When we returned the next day for lunch, we had turkey sandwiches. That evening, we had turkey for dinner.
The next day, we had turkey for lunch. Also for dinner.
By this time, I could see that we were getting close to the bone, and I was already anticipating a change of pace.
However, when we showed up the next day, I beheld a brand spanking new roast turkey.
By the end of the week, I half-expected to sprout feathers and wattles.
It so happens that I like turkey as much as the next guy, but it was obvious that, after praising her mother’s culinary skills, my wife was at a loss to explain the turkey festival.
Only after we returned to L.A. was the mystery solved. My wife got off the phone with her mom and explained, “My mother knows you’re Jewish and she knows there are lots of things Jews aren’t supposed to eat, but she figured turkey was safe.”
If only my own mother had been as thoughtful. That woman, knowing how much I dreaded salmon patties and barley soup, made the one every Tuesday night and the other every Friday night for as long as I lived at home, and never — not even on Thanksgiving — made turkey.
Juanita Boe passed away almost 10 years ago. If she got a gig in God’s kitchen, I can’t help wondering what’s on the menu.
Thank you for your nice words about America’s Third World, where my wife and I live. Though I am from the Iowa side of the border, I have been in Oxford.
Our son is a young “suit” in Silicon Valley. He learned prospective employers put a premium on smart, well- educated farm boys. They know folks like him are hard workers and think for themselves.
Huge laughs – loved it!
And what is it about salmon patties? I swear I only made them a few times for my kids, but they talk like they got them every week too!
Dear Believer: My mom had a green thumb, but unfortunately she employed it in the kitchen, not the garden. Her salmon patties contained more egg than salmon. Which resulted in disgusting huge yellow spots. And, unlike you, she made the darn things every Tuesday night. That was bad enough. Worse was the fact that I’d have salmon patty sandwiches in my lunch bag on Wednesday. Go try to trade one of those babies for a cupcake or even a banana.
Regards, Burt Prelutsky
Great stuff. I was born in DC, raised in San Diego, but now live in Indiana and love it. We’ll never go back to the big liberal cities where no one cares about anything but $ and themselves.
I have been in all 48 lower states and most major cities. Small towns are the best, though I still do live in the biggest city in Indiana, but cannot wait to move to a more rural locale at the end of this summer.
As to this:
“There were two elderly women in the car. They offered us a lift. When I asked them if they weren’t the least bit nervous about picking up strangers in the dead of night, the driver said, “We saw your car, so we knew you’d broken down, and we knew we’d come across you sooner or later.” I sat there thinking, “Toto, we’re not in California anymore.””
Yep. When my fiancee and I almost hit a deer and ended up in a ditch in SE Kansas last winter, the FIRST car by helped us get out and took us toward the nearest shop. That is typical. In LA, or Hartford as we aw last week, the yuppies would have done nothing. Thankfully, there are enough of these “bitter” folks to not only produce our brave soldiers but to make sure Barack Hussein Obama is never America’s leader.
It was a breath of fresh air to read such a neat story after checking all the stuff in the political columns. My kind of writing. Thanks for the break.
Hey, what’s wrong with salmon patties? I loved those things while growing up!
My wife and I are raising our two daughters in a small Indiana town with a population of about 1,500. Best place ever for kids because everyone watches out for everyone else.
My wife grew up in Grand Rapids, Mich., and returns several times a year to visit family, but she now hates the traffic, the stop lights, and the pollution.
There is a lot to be said for living in a town where the kids can walk to school, walk to the library, walk to friend’s house, and play outside without fear.
Life is good here.
Hey, what’s wrong with salmon patties? I loved those things while growing up!
My wife and I are raising our two daughters in a small Indiana town with a population of about 1,500. Best place ever for kids because everyone watches out for everyone else.
My wife grew up in Grand Rapids, Mich., and returns several times a year to visit family, but she now hates the traffic, the stop lights, and the pollution.
There is a lot to be said for living in a town where the kids can walk to school, walk to the library, walk to friend’s house, and play outside without fear.
In short, life is good here.
Oops, sorry for the double post.
Oh, my gosh, Burt. I wish I’d seen your answer sooner.
I’ve been laughing hysterically ever since. You can give us more laughs in fewer sentences than anyone I can remember.
Please – keep regaling us with your tales of tortured youth! Or anything, for that matter. We love it all.
Dead on about the best and worst things. a quote on the subject I always liked; “One of the good things about living in a small community, your character is judged every day” Cal Turner sr. founder of Dollar General, life long resident of Scottville, KY.
I have lived in both large and small towns. I moved to Princeton, KY in 1987 a town of a few thousand and the largest town for many miles. the first day on the job, I walked to the local bank to open an account and was immediately asked if i was the new guy at the mill. I asked if i was wearing a sign, and the clerk said she knew there was a new VP at the mill and since I was wearing a suit and was the only one she didnt know by name, I had to be it.
As a small town gal in Kansas, I love the same thing: you never run into a stranger in a small town. Unfortunately, you can’t ever really let your hair down, either.
Thanks for the idea about making salmon patties for dinner tonight. My kids are a bit too spoiled having a mother with mad culinary skills. Think I’ll whip up some salmon patties — with too much egg, naturally — just to give them something to complain about.
Dear Katherine Berry: Just keep in mind that your kids are the ones who’ll be picking out your rest home.
Best, Burt