Early in August, we drove to Denver to see our son Ezra. Between here and there is Nebraska, a big state with a lot of open space and sky.
There are two ways to get through Nebraska. The interstate is straight, predictable and a little dull. Or you can take roads that go west and south and west and south, etc. We took the latter on our way to Denver. Somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, wide roads through corn fields with regular towns turn into narrow roads through rangeland with few towns.
That’s all well and good, unless you need gas. With the Low Fuel light on, we came to a gas station on the edge of Bartlett. The price was fifty cents higher there on what seemed the edge of civilization. I was glad to pay it as I stepped inside the small station.
A young woman, 16 or 17, was working the counter. She was friendly, and I’m a fan of small talk. I asked her about Bartlett. I couldn’t really see the town. It was behind trees, west of the road. I learned there were only about one hundred people over there.
Did she go to school there? Yes, there were four in her class. I asked whether she thought she would stay in Bartlett when she was older. She seemed surprised by that, and answered with an uncertain, “Well, I guess so. Probably.”
Of course, I have no idea her situation or background. Is there a ranch or family business that might be in her future? A boyfriend? Even in the middle of Nebraska, there are a hundred variables that impact where a young person might end up as an adult.
A few more pleasantries, and we were back on the road. I told Pam about Bartlett Girl, and wondered if she would end up there. How do any of us end up where we do? Who we marry, the work we do, children we raise, all affect the life we live. But the place where we do those things has a profound impact.
Compared to Bartlett, Sleepy Eye is big, thirty times the population. Everything is perspective, and someone from Chicago would certainly not think Sleepy Eye is a big anything. When I was Bartlett Girl’s age, no way did I think I would come back to the farm west of Sleepy Eye as an adult. I’m not sure why. I enjoyed my childhood there, but it just seemed inevitable that I’d leave. Funny how life is that way.
Farming is unique in that traditionally the workplace is the homeplace. The only separation is the yard. It is one career where a son, sometimes daughter, is likely as not to end up in the house they grew up in. It’s common in farming areas like ours. That’s changing, though. As farms grow in size, the number of farmers is less. It’s a hundred-year trend.
After college, I came back to the most familiar place on Earth to me. For wife Pam, it’s a much different story. Sleepy Eye wasn’t on any list of possible places she’d spend her adulthood when she was young. But in those ways that life throws you a curveball when you’re looking for a fastball, here she is. She met a guy in college who ended up going home to farm. Pam has made a life here with friends and her own interesting work. But the decision of where we would live was one-sided.
A job is the number one dictator for most of us where we will put down roots. If you’re married, one or the other’s work will take priority and decide where the couple will live. Some people are in careers where they have to move to a new place, sometimes multiple times. Moving was always hard to imagine for me. When you’re tethered to dirt, you don’t move.
While career is the number one reason most of us live where we do, other factors can have a part. Sometimes being close to family decides where we are. A school can weigh heavy for a young couple with kids. A church can be a draw. There are families who’ve come to Sleepy Eye because of St. Mary’s, not only the church, but also the school. Plus a nursing home and a chapel on the lake. It’s a Catholic destination.
Access to natural and cultural resources can be an influencer. People like living near water, on hills, and around trees. A home on the beach is the ultimate place for many. Corn and soybean fields aren’t high on lists of naturally beautiful places. But it’s better than concrete.
I’m at an age where people are making decisions about where to live now that they aren’t tied to a place by a job. Perhaps it’s where to live for the “rest of their lives.” After forty years of working for the man, it can be liberating to go where the wind blows you. It’s an interesting phenomenon, and of course it’s only an issue for those with a certain amount of wealth.
I know folks who are moving to be close to their kids and grandkids. Others have places where winter is not something you need to survive. I admit that after scooping out the driveway for the third time on a wind-swept, ten-below day, that has it’s attraction.
Speaking of moving, I have thought about our ancestors who settled here. It really wasn’t that long ago that most of them came, but it’s buried in history now.
Can I imagine bringing a young family on a long ride across an ocean to a place I’d never been, with maybe one or two trunks of our things? Leaving a home and relatives that I almost certainly would never see again? And then taking a train to the middle of the continent where there were barely any towns? In a language that was foreign? No, I can’t.
Back to current time. In Denver, I saw people without homes as you do in any large city. Sometimes it was an individual on the side of the road. Sometimes it was a group in an encampment of tents and sleeping bags. It was a reminder to not take any of this for granted. A home is shelter, a warm place on a cold day or a cool place on a hot day. If we can share that with someone, even better. It is a gift not granted to everyone.
Laura Ingalls Wilder said, “Home is the nicest word there is.” No matter where that is.