Tractors, Barns, and Sunsets

I spent childhood summers racing down hills, fishing in ponds, and cycling through small-town USA. The familiar scent of morning dew at Grandpa's farm, the choking sensation of evening bonfires, and the sweet roast of grandma's Reuben sandwiches. For a brief few weeks, it was home: Van Buran County, Iowa.

Each morning, I rose to pancakes for breakfast, put on my big-girl boots, and followed gramps up the hill to the barn. With its classic red-and-white stripes, the barn held his precious tractors, four-wheelers (ATVs,) fishing poles, and a mini-fridge full of fresh bait.

Days were spent wandering through rolling hills, plucking wild flowers for family reunions, and enjoying an occasional trip to town. The Dutchman's Store, also known to my eight-year-old self as a treasure house for one-dollar ice cream, was a must-visit. Run by the Amish community, I often was in awe of their hand-made clothing and bonnets, or a family of ten arriving on buggies, a horse tied in front. Traditionally forbidden to use electricity, their minimalistic yet substantial lives were a unique sight. How rare it was that their culture persists, even in this constantly evolving and often chaotic country.

Across Bonaparte main street, Annabel's Antiques and Sweets stands proud. Selling exotic artifacts, woolen dolls from the 1800s, and authentic photographs of Victorian families, the wooden store is a little gem. I always loved our visits, and how the owner, a plump and bubbly woman, remembered my name each year. Nibbling a chunk of watermelon fudge, I skip along the Mississippi River, lost in the warm summer breeze.

Driving up the pebbled road, I hop off at the sight of Grandpa carrying seeds to the bird-feeders. Racing after him, I offer to help and he lifts me towards the sky. I carefully pour in the mixture of sunflower seeds and peanuts, then a bottle of silky honey for hummingbirds. Within a few minutes, a dozen chirping birds come racing towards us, wings flapping against the wind. Grandpa and I studying each pattern, competing to see who can name the most names. He always won.

As evening approached, we gathered the poles, leapt on a golf car, and drove through the fields to the pond. I loved sitting in the back, watching waves ripple through the rye as we sped past. Uncles, cousins, and neighbors at times gathered by the water, sitting side by side on the little wooden dock. I jerked the pole forward until it sank under the surface, praying a fish would find it as enchanting as I did. Fishing, I learned, was never about the fish itself, but about patience.

"See the little bob on the surface? Watch it closely, but stay calm. You can't rush fishing, pumpkin." Grandpa would say.

Despite never catching more than seaweed, I loved the tranquility of the water, the gentle ripples, and the gradient of cherry-rose rays reflected upon it.

Dusk came, then night. Miles away from town, the sky shimmered in a bright coat of stars. The cousins and I gathered dry logs, a few huffing and puffing at a little spark. Blankets, marshmallows and guitars were brought, as ATVs zipped down to join the gathering. Coyotes howled in the distance, but we were warm and safe, huddled around the fire, a blush of red on our cheeks.

Six years have passed since the farm was sold. Yet I still remember, as if I were once again the little girl running up the hill, the crisp summer air against my cheeks. The grass, the trees Grandpa planted for us each, the thrill of riding with him on a rumbling John-Deere tractor. These fragmented memories form the USA I know, the place I call home.

Times Square is radiant, the Statue of Liberty is majestic, San Francisco is vibrant, but only Iowa, Iowa alone, makes me feel American.

So remember the next time you travel, there is much to be discovered even in the most remote regions of this crazy world. Head off the beaten track, and you just might find yourself in love with even rusty barns, clumsy tractors, and every sunset down the hill.