It is not possible to describe this part of the country without commenting on the occupants. Ron has mentioned (at least several times a day) the courteousness of the drivers. For me, I am overwhelmed by the vastness of the crops, the hugeness of the farming equipment, the heights of the grain elevators, and the solidness of the farmhouses. "Solid" is a strange word to use, but it is only word I can find that fits.
This is a solid lot. These are a solid people. They know what they are doing. They, the farmers, have been working this land for hundreds of years. And though the equipment today is bigger, and tractors have replaced mules to drag the plows, and ATV's have replaced horses for getting around the farms, not much has changed from the days when the first homesteaders arrived in the 1800s. The earth is tilled; seeds are planted; crops are watered and fertilized; crops are harvested and stored. Then the community prepares for the next cycle.
Our road trip around America has given me an appreciation and a great respect for the men and women who grow our food, who grow the world's food.
Just where is the heartland? While there is no consensus regarding the geographical boundaries of America's Heartland, I found this definition helpful: "From the perspective of a US citizen, the word 'Heartland' usually refers to the Midwest, an area which includes the north-central states of the United States of America, specifically Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, Ohio, Nebraska, North Dakota, South Dakota and Wisconsin."
Ron and I drove through most of these states when we left Montana. After we left South Dakota, and entered Minnesota, we noticed the train tracks along highway 14. We followed the tracks for hundreds of miles, passing through tiny towns with massive grain elevators conveniently located near the tracks. These farmers were growing and processing soy. It was difficult to get my brain around the acres of soy crops it must take to fill these massive grain elevators. At first, the fields seemed ready and waiting, but empty. Then we noticed the rows of tiny plants popping up. As we traveled east, the crops were further and further developed, and much easier to identify. The earth, too, changed as we moved east. The watering wheels disappeared, and the landscape surrounding the farmlands became green and lush, occasionally speckled with trees.
It was easy to spot the cultural heritage of those who journeyed from Europe during the Great Expansion, and settled here: Germans, Russians, Swedes. The towns, streets, and businesses still carried the family names of these early immigrants.
The little town of New Ulm welcomed us in German: "Wilkommen." My southern-born, French-speaking husband of Italian descent was baffled by the incredibly efficient traffic circles.
We spent a night in Kadoka, South Dakota, and another night in Springfield, Minnesota.
We drove through the little town of Sleepy Eye, and stopped to read about the real "Linus", of Peanuts comic strip fame. Who knew that Linus was a real person? Linus Maurer served in the Navy in World War II, then studied art under Charles Schultz at the Art Instruction School in Minneapolis.
The light, sandy soil gave way to red, and then to dark, earthy brown. By the time we reached Wisconsin, the soil was almost black. We stopped in Minneapolis to have lunch with a distant cousin that I hadn't seen in over 4 decades. It was as though no time at all had passed. We spent a night in Madison, Wisconsin, home of the University of Wisconsin Beavers. I mean Badgers. Full disclosure, I am a Buckeye.
The campus was quite lovely. The twilight lingered, allowing us to enjoy dinner and an ice cream on the plaza of the student union, looking out over the heads of the college students gathered in small groups, and watching the sail boats bob at their moors on Lake Monona.
Ron reminded me that Otis Redding is here, someone in the depths of this lake. On December 10, 1967, on his way to perform in Madison and just a few miles from the airport, the private plane carrying the 26-year-old singer crashed, killing Otis and the five teen-age members of the Bar-Kays, his backup group. Otis Redding's body was never recovered from the deep, icy water. The unfinished song he was working on, "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay", was released a few weeks after his death. The "whistling" part in the song was a place holder for lyrics he had yet to write, now immortalized as a sort of tribute to life's unfished work. I wonder, will there be a "whistling" part of my life when I am gone? I hope so....
The next morning, we headed south out of Madison, and in a few hours we were in Illinois. We were still surrounded by farmland, the crops further along in their growth cycle. Corn had replaced soy. Corn, corn, and more corn. In Normal, Illinois, we drove by the "Corn Crib Stadium", built by the Illinois Corn Farmers. You know, where the Cornbelters play baseball. In Bloomington we picked up Interstate 74, and turned East into Indiana. This seemed like a good plan at the time. We wanted to avoid Chicago. What we didn't know was that major road construction was being performed in the cities where the big north/south interstate highways intersected the big east/west interstate highways.
Many of these big cities (like Bloomington, and later Indianapolis) had elected to simply close the interstates to speed the road work. We understood the benefit of this approach, having lived through Winston-Salem's decision to close Business 40 and reopen a new 421. But as travelers, trying to get home, the congestion and delay were a wee bit painful.
In Indianapolis, we picked up Interstate 70, and in a few hours were welcomed to Ohio. What is it about one's hometown, or home state, that can trigger such incredible waves of nostalgia?
We spent the night at my sister's home in Gahanna, on the northeast side of Columbus. The earth here is rich, dark and moist, and it has a scent that fills me with memories of my childhood. My sister laughed: that is just the worms, she tells me. Two of my brothers came by for a visit. After tearful apologies, all three siblings forgave me for stopping in Madison, and fraternizing with rivals. Later, each of them privately confided to me that they enjoy the Wisconsin fans almost as much as the Nebraska fans - they are friendly, hospitable, fun people with which to share a football stadium on a cold fall Saturday afternoon. Still, if you should happen upon any member of my family, please don't mention Ron's photo of me with Bucky.
Car Talk
Springfield, Minnesota to Madison, Wisconsin
Distance: 442 miles
Driving Time: 7 hours, 48 minutes
Mileage: 32.2 mpg
Average Speed: 56 mph
Trip total 8,988.0 miles
Madison, Wisconsin to Columbus, Ohio
Distance: 541 miles
Driving Time: 9 hours, 21 minutes
Mileage: 29.4
Average Speed: 57 mph
Trip total: 9,529.3
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