We take a southern detour to visit my brother-in-law in a corner of Iowa. He’s taught high school for almost 25 years, and he’s my wife’s only brother. He’s a funny and brilliant guy who knows enough about history and baseball to keep you talking all night. He’s the first person we see on the trip who we really know, who knows us from our old lives. I find myself chattering about the trip like it was a religious quest. I inflate the journey, the travel. At one point he says, “Well, as long as you’re having fun.”

My wife’s family is from Iowa, and she was born just about 20 miles from here. One of our stops this weekend is that little town, but we also have plans to see an area that covers six counties tucked in this corner of the state.

Most folks have no concept of the Midwest. To them, it’s just a flyover area of blank spaces, a green patch in a road atlas, a place they’ve never been. There is some sense of cold. If you say “Iowa,” some folks imagine corn.

But there’s so much corn you can’t even fully describe it. As we drive the highways, dirt roads, and gravel roads (all brilliantly straight north and south or east and west) we are always bordering corn or soybean fields. The corn stalks are dead, harvested, but still straight and standing and whistling a bit in any breeze. Up close they make a rustling sound, like cardboard against paper, dead leaves against a window. Field after field, and nothing but that on the horizon. Trees only intrude inside towns or around river bottoms. The fields themselves are uncluttered, rows and endless rows, sometimes a shocking group of silver silos, a single combine or harvester, a row of gigantic power lines escaping toward Nebraska, two cows looking through a fence.

On a blue and sunny Saturday my brother-in-law drives us around. We roll in his giant Buick on dusty roads, the dust pouring in vents or half-closed windows. Dust so thick it makes a fog around you. Think Pigpen. Think Cary Grant and that crop duster. Dust so heavy you can feel it on your tongue. You sneeze. You blow your nose, then take another deep breath of dust. The car is full of dust, but how could it not be? It’s been a drought year and dust is what you get from that.

Every town we see has a population of about 800. My brother-in-law tells us which towns are dying out, which ones are hanging on. They all look much the same, with old prairie-style homes from the turn of the last century, a tiny post office, one or two restaurants (one’s always a buffet). Farmers push into town in pickups or congregate on benches or by the feed stores.

Everyone waves, smiles. The sun beats down. The crop for corn was okay this year, the soy beans won’t be quite as good. But it’s a beautiful place, even with the dust.

We roll into Hamburg, Iowa, where my wife has not been since the day she was born there. It’s like most of the other towns we’ve seen, but a little larger, a little more prosperous. “These are all popcorn,” my brother-in-law says, pointing at over a hundred squatty silos, about 40 feet high, about 40 feet across. A banner hangs on one announcing the yearly popcorn festival.

We go through town and then head up a narrow hillside road that goes by some homes. “These are all popcorn people up here,” my brother-in-law says, as we wind up in the driveway of a nice brick house, sprawling green lawn. A kid on a lawn mower nods at us and keeps going. We get out for a minute and peer over the back of their backyard, fields, a distant Interstate, and dust rising off a county road and a single green pickup.

We go by another town, where my wife graduated, and another where my brother-in-law’s high school volleyball team is going to play that week. One of his players is sick, his best player. She has mono or West Nile or something. She missed the last couple of games. The phones in the area have been buzzing about her; will she get well? Will she be back to play Malvern? We have to have her back to beat Malvern!

We head up another gravel road. It’s big enough for one and half cars of this size, so we’re right in the middle. Dust roars in both windows. I’m smiling, holding my breath. Suddenly, a giant red combine appears ahead of us, moving in the same direction, but slower. My brother-in-law is pointing out the window on his side. “One of my players lives there,” he says, as he motions at a small farmhouse down a dirt road. We fly past the combine, two wheels half in the ditch, the combine’s massive red arm right at eye level on my side.

When the day is over, we get out of the Buick and the dust settles on me, my clothes. I can’t see anything.

About the Author

Bob Hate

Bob was a rock and roll musician who had a failed career playing in clubs in and around Dallas, Texas. He was born in Bossier City, Louisiana in 1958, but then disappeared and was rumored dead in 1999 and later in 2014.

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