FINDING MY HEART IN THE HEARTLAND
FINDING MY HEART IN THE HEARTLANDBy Jean Tennant When people first learn that I grew up in California and moved to Iowa while a junior in high school, their questions are always the same: How
FINDING MY HEART IN THE HEARTLAND
By Jean Tennant
When people first learn that I grew up in California and moved to Iowa while a junior in high school, their questions are always the same: How did I get here, and why did I stay?
The answer to the first question is a complicated. My stepfather, who was from rural Iowa, moved to California to seek his fortune in the big city. He met and married my mother, a divorcee with three children. A few years later he wanted to return to Iowa to re-enter the family business, and my mother agreed. This was in the early seventies and at the time I was a rebellious teen enthusiastically embracing the post-hippy culture of my home state. I'm quite sure that if we'd stayed I would now have children with names like Sunshine, Moonbeam and Wildflower.
The answer to the second question is easier. I've stayed because I found, after the initial shock wore off, that I like it here. The land is flat and the wind blows incessantly, but the people are friendly, and they stubbornly refuse to give in to the urban cynicism I'd previously known. I went from a ninth grade class of more than 600 students to a graduating class of 26. Adding to the culture shock, we'd moved into a farmhouse where, without a driver's license, I was a virtual prisoner amongst the corn fields. But we had a horse, a dog and a dozen or so barn cats for entertainment.
In junior high I'd thought nothing of hopping a city bus for a ride to the beach. On the farm I had to beg a ride to town, only to find there wasn't much going on there anyway.
I also found a warmth here I'd never quite experienced before. By the time I graduated from high school I no longer plotted my return to California. I was content to further my education nearby, and by the time I had children of my own I'd learned the value of small town living in keeping them, for the most part, out of harm's way.
That's not to say I didn't give city life the occasional try. We lived in the Twin Cities for a couple of years, but missed Iowa and came back. Shortly after our return, my middle child came home one day and said, "Some lady just said 'Hi, Paul' to me. I don't know who she was. How does she know me?"
"Everybody here knows who you are," I told him. "Get used to it."
It kept us all on our best behavior.
A couple of years ago I left my wallet on the trunk of my car after filling the tank with gas. I didn't miss it until hours later, when there was a knock at my door. A tall, bearded man held my battered wallet in his hand.
"I was behind you and saw it bounce off your car onto the road," he explained. "When it hit the ground it burst open and everything scattered. I think I found most of it, but there might be some change missing." My wallet was stuffed with credit cards, my driver's license, about $60 in cash and assorted coupons and store receipts. This kind soul had dodged oncoming traffic to chase it all down - fluttering, I'm sure, in the breeze of passing cars - and return it to me.
There are a few concessions I haven't made. I'm still a seafood-and-wild rice person in a meat-and-potatoes community, and I recently paid $58 for second-day UPS delivery of the Portuguese sausage I absolutely cannot find around here. But the occasional sense of isolation I might feel has been put to rest by the advent of the Internet, a true godsend for those of us who choose to live in the boonies. Shopping, which was once a challenge, is now just a mouse-click away, and I maintain a close personal relationship with Amazon.com.
For me, there's no going back. The new shingles on my roof are John Deere green, and the Midwest is so thoroughly in my blood that if I cut myself cornmeal would flow from my veins.
The best part, however, is that Sunshine, Moonbeam and Wildflower are named Shaun, Paul and Toni.





