OldTroubador's blog post - Iowa? Yes, Iowa

I step outside the truck in central Iowa to enjoy the morning. I am close enough to the delivery so that I don’t have to awaken at some awful hour. It is a clear morning, no clouds at all, and the sun is not yet over the horizon; the sky is bright with pastels. As I stand there with my coffee, a glint catches my eye. An airliner is far enough overhead to catch the Sun’s first rays and glows fluorescent orange in the sky; its short contrail shines fire.
After watching this sight in awe for a few minutes, it was time to get the day started. I was still smiling as I went through my morning routine – I had seen airplanes reflecting the Sun before, but never in such bold color.
My delivery went off without a hitch and I hurried to Ottumwa, the ancestral home of M*A*S*H*’s Radar O’Riley. I was scheduled for an 1130 pickup – this is where things went wrong.
The customer told me I was actually scheduled for an 0200 pickup, that I was fourteen hours early, but they would try to work me into their schedule. As the hours dragged by, and as I was not on the loading dock yet, I watched my list of possible stopping places dwindle. When I was finally called to the dock, and loaded, I had only one place left to go and that would leave me with a lot of driving the next day to make my delivery.
As I left Ottumwa, I was travelling east on a four lane highway that skirted small towns and large farms. And anyone who knows me knows how much I hate the cities and love the open land. As I drove between cornfields and soybeans, all my anger and frustration left me. And I reveled in the beauty that is Iowa. Yes, Iowa.
The hills gently rolled; Iowa is not flat. The hills were not so steep that they bogged down the Freebird as she climbed them either. I roared past woods, over streams, and between hundreds, nay, thousands of square miles of corn and soybeans.
The soybean fields were a deep rich green, attesting to the health of the plants. Stretching out to the horizon, over hill and dale, the fields were an undulating green carpet on the land. Small gusts of wind turned the leaves over, showing the lighter bottom sides, cat’s paws of wind racing across the fields. The effect was like that of watching a breeze cross a lake, causing small wavelets as it advanced. In other places, the wind blew a little stronger and all the leaves were turned over; the fields looked like green velveteen that had been brushed the wrong way.
The corn was planted in orderly rows which zoomed past my window like picket fence posts. The green leaves and stalks were topped with golden hats, the tassels full of pollen. All the corn, all the beans are the same height, giving the land the look of a Marine Corps sergeant’s haircut. The only break in the order was the deeper folds of the earth which had been left fallow to allow for the water run-off from the spring and summer rains. This in unlike Indiana or Illinois, where the land is table flat and the fields flood and are washed away by the torrents of water from overflowing rivers and streams.
The habit in many places is to plant the fields right to the edge of the property lines, but here in Iowa, small hedgerows are left around all the fields. These small but important tidbits of brush provide homes and shelter to the creatures that live off the land, and the creatures that live off them – songbirds, pheasants, ground squirrels, foxes.
It is easy to locate each home site in these wide open spaces. The farmers have left trees up around their houses to provide shade and cooling in the summer and protection from winter’s icy blasts. Oaks and maples tower over simple yet well built houses with neatly tended yards. There is no sign of wrecked or worn out cars or pick-up trucks or appliances here. The yards are all neatly trimmed. These families that tend the land do so with a reverence; their love and respect for that which they are the custodians runs deep.
Small streams course between the fields and under the highway – small cathedrals of green, the trees forming the arches over the aisles made of water heading to an altar unseen. Hosannas are sung by the multitude of birds, rejoicing. A kingfisher dives into the creek, its communion sacrament the small fish it carries off. Ponds large and small dot the landscape too. In this one, a great blue heron stands silently, patiently, waiting for its prey to approach before the serpentine neck darts forward like a rapier to spear the unwilling meal.
Small roads are etched across the land, from the highway back into the low hills, each going to town. A break in the trees allows one to look in that direction, but the town is unseen. Its presence however, is marked by a tall white steeple of the town church. Closing one’s eyes, you can imagine what the town looks like – a single main street where all the commerce takes place. There is the grocery store where the ladies at the checkout know everyone in town and are sincere with their inquiries about the families’ health. The register tape is handed over along with a bag of peppermints or butterscotch candy for the children. Next door is the general store, where all manner of goods can be obtained - hunting and fishing supplies, tools and hardware, clothes, dishes, etc. Down at the end of the street is the farm supply store with its seeds, feeds, and fertilizers. At the other end of town is the tractor dealer – John Deere, New Holland, Massey-Ferguson brands are all represented here. Dozens of small towns, unique in name, yet similar in look.
The sun shines brightly overhead and gleams off the aluminum grain bins that have replaced the brick silos of old. The silos still stand as testament to the old way of life. Tradition and respect for what has gone before is a way of life for these people. Old wooden barns stand next to pole barns and large metal sheds. Driving past a side road, there stands an old one or two room schoolhouse, its walls weathered but still standing, the bell tower on top looking sound enough to call the children even now to their lessons.
The roadway is lined with grass and wildflowers – lavender blue cornflowers, white Queen Anne’s lace, yellow buttercups color the highway. Small birds feed on the grass seeds shed there, flying away as vehicles approach, looking like feathered bow wakes of boats. Mourning doves dart recklessly hither and yon and red winged blackbirds flutter momentarily before alighting in the tall grass to either ride the tops of the reeds or disappear in the enfolding stalks. A red-shinned hawk glides precipitously from a nearby treetop, its wings cupped, shifting to alter its course as it descends upon an unsuspecting creature. At the last moment, the wings fold and it plummets, spearing its meal to the ground. A quick glance at its talons to make sure that its aim was true and then it stands tall, head erect, chest out, rightly proud of its accomplishment.
The sun is lower in the sky and shifts a little as the road curves and winds its path to the east. The shadow of my truck races me in the tall grass, sometimes ahead, sometimes lagging. It is a race without a victor, for we both will arrive in a dead heat before the day is done. At one point, the sun beams directly through my side window and I can see my shadow in the grass; I raise my coffee mug in salute to my doppelganger and he returns the greeting.
Off to the southeast, dark clouds build against the blue sky. They are tall, gray, ominous. They stand almost black, their edges marked with purple. They pose no threat to me as I will be moving to the north soon, but yet they capture the eye, standing like a villain edging around a tree, waiting to pounce on the unwary. Another storm is building over my left shoulder, still white as the sun burns through the gathering water vapor. It rises quickly, the familiar anvil head shape forming, a man of war sailing across the sea of sky. As I continue to watch, the storms to the southeast begin to flicker, the convective energy stored in them transformed into electrical explosions across the sky. I turn to the north, hurrying now, as the warship storm that has trailed me closes in. I am directly in its path, trying to make safe harbor before its fury is unleashed. I arrive at my truck stop in time to watch the storm begin to fire in the near distance; possibly it is angry that the puny merchant vessel has reached safety before it could bring all its power to bear.
From factory to field, warehouse to farmhouse, across busy interstates and meandering two lane roads, I have travelled this state. And the effect on me has always been the same. I need no Valium, no transcendental meditation. Just give me Iowa. Yes, Iowa.