It was laundry day today. I originally planned to got to the movies and see Dr. Strange (in 3-D!) but the weather was just too fine, so I headed to the river instead. Later, I headed to one of the two places in town (so far) that carries microbrews and had dinner. A woman who had been at my talk stopped by and we had a nice chat about being liberal in North Platte. Much to digest. Here is that poem, in case you'd prefer to read it than listen to my cold-ravaged voice. How far has the river of time carried me?
How do I map the distance, the depth, the eddies of life? Here I am, an old woman (or nearly old) standing on the bank of the same river I knew as a child. As if I never left. Yet nothing is the same. This water, 60 years ago, was in a cloud, or a jelly glass, or an antelope’s eye. The swings in the park behind me are new. Safer, and smaller.Or maybe I am just bigger. I’ve met a few old friends and driven by many more, in the graveyard. What hasn’t changed? The sky. The smell of the river bank. The reddish brown squirrels.The yellow autumn. The flow of the river, always south and east. And somehow, in ways I cannot see or say, but only feel — me. No scenic pictures today; I was too busy. I made some last-minute changes to my presentation slides, then headed to the library fro my brown bag talk. It was very well attended -- twenty or so people, including a local reporter covering the event. It pays to be a big fish in a small pond. The after talk discussion was pretty amazing; I learned all kinds of things about high school dress codes in this part of country, including that girls were first permitted to wear pants to North Platte High School in 1971. That will save me lots of microfilm time. I crawled back to my motel -- this cold is still whipping my butt -- and took a short nap, then medicated myself up and headed to the harvest dinner at the Lutheran Church. Jackpot! The dinner was great, and I ended up sitting with a "connector". She's one of those people who could scan a room and pick out the two or three people who could identify the kids in my choir picture. One of those kids, Jimmy Nisley, was also there, and was able to name half a dozen of them. From the Lutheran dinner, I headed to Wild Bill's Wings and Bowling for the monthly meeting of the Lincoln County Democrats. What a stalwart group! They live surrounded by friends, family, and neighbors who abuse them and steal their Hillary/Kaine signs. (One elderly woman has lost seven in the last few weeks.) They spent a good part of the meeting hearing from a woman who was explaining the Affordable Care Act issues, providing solid information and talking points to counter the hair-on-fire "reporting" going on. They are determined to "go high when they go low", and they have to fight an ongoing battle for equal time in the local media. The chair agreed to attend a political forum at a local church and found himself alone in a very hostile crowd, but he delivered his message and hoped he opened a few minds, at least to the possibility of political differences without hate. Like I said, a stalwart group. I'll be spending election night with them at Wild Bill's.
What a day! I wrote for nearly three hours, fueled by twice as much coffee as usual, made another new acquaintance, and viewed another reel of old microfilm. But that wasn't the best part. The best part was sitting with Sharon, my classmate from second and third grade, and just talking and listening. She's still working part time at an elementary school, a job she loves. She actually left North Platte for a few years after community college, working in Denver before returning to get married. Her husband never wanted to leave, but she misses Denver. She's had her challenges; an aneurysm several years ago, a daughter with MS. But when we talked about school memories, her blue eyes sparkled, and we laughed together. She filled in some holes in my memory, and I tried to return the favor. Best set of all, she remembered me, and told a story I had forgotten. She said she always remembered when I came to school with new shoes and said, "Look how fast I can run in these Buster Brown shoes!" and proceeded to run around the playground at top speed, and then do it again. Apparently it was the talk of my McKinley Elementary classmates long after I moved away. I can't put into words what it is like to catch a glimpse of long ago yourself through someone else's memory. I returned to the motel, and paid for my next week, and the sweet manger, Linda, loaded me up with food, as she does every on their day. After enjoying her offering (I skipped lunch -- bad idea), I decided it was the right day to drive north toward the Sand Hills and catch the sunset. The actual Sand Hills are much farther away; maybe I'll get closer on a weekend. Picture rolling prairie dunes covering a quarter of this immense state. For now, be content with this, taken about 20 miles north on Route 83. Today I tried (and failed) to learn more about dress codes in North Platte in the 60s. It turns out that the schools keep copies of yearbooks, but not student handbooks. Le sigh. So I am hoping that Sharon remembers something about her experiences! Instead, I plunged into the local history materials at the library, beginning with the months leading up to our departure in 1957. Yay, microfilm. Bigger hooray for a fancy new microfilm reader that can same images to a flash drive. How else could I share with you this gem? Yes, kiddies, these are the radio and TV offerings available to me on a Tuesday night 59 years ago. You can bet I would be watching Phil Silvers and Spike Jones! Sure beats the election news, doesn't it? And remember: without Spike Jones, there's no Frank Zappa, no PDQ Bach, no Weird Al. Here's a bonus Spike Jones hit, from my birth year: I'll say this for North Platte; it's easy even for a deep-down introvert like me to make new acquaintances. All you have to do is stand there watching a steam engine back down a siding, or sit in a coffee shop, and the next thing you know you are talking to a friendly stranger. They have mastered the art of storytelling without slipping into dangerous territory -- most notably politics. My first experience was with a fellow who was also watching the early-morning departure of Engine 844 (yes, I made it, and it was fantastic!). In the half an hour so we stood together in the chilly dawn, I learned about how engine-building had changed in 35 years and what it was like for a boy from a Nevada dairy farm to decide to study mechanical engineering. I told him about my journey east as a child, and how university teaching has changed with technology. After the train chugged off to the west, I headed to the Espresso Shop for my ritual latte and email session. My new friend Alan the haberdasher stopped by to ask how my research was going, and to give me a lead on someone who could tell me about the women's clothing business in North Platte. Then a fellow came by and introduced himself as Mel; he is a regular customer and noticed that I was becoming one, so thought he should say hi. He told me a couple of jokes (clean) and recommended a movie (Always, with John Goodman) and told his story of traveling to 39 states before arriving in North Platte 11 years ago. Just the right size, he said, and a couple of hours away from his daughter, which is also just about right. He said I just make sure to come to open mic night on Friday the 11th, and I am thinking of doing some storytelling myself. This cold is still wearing me down, and I took another satisfying nap before heading to the grocery store for provisions. Then I tested my voice and decided I could manage a phone conversation, and called up Sharon Johnson Kleckner, my classmate. We are meeting this Wednesday in the library to look at photos and talk clothing and stuff. Even more exciting, she is friends with our second grade teacher, now retired and in declining health. She was a pretty young Miss Taylor in 1956, probably in her very first year of teaching, and she moved away and got married at the end of the year, breaking all of our young hearts. Sharon tells me that one boy was so crushed that he convinced his mother to drive him to Hastings for the wedding. But the former Miss Taylor, now in her 80s, is back in North Platte and I hope I can see her soon!
Today was the day my cold finally got the better of me. I managed to get out of my room twice, once for breakfast and church, and later, after a three-hour nap, for a literal blast from the past Today was Reformation Sunday at the First Evangelical Lutheran Church; it has been 499 years since Martin Luther posted his “Disputation on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences,” also known as “The 95 Theses,” on the door of the Wittenburg Castle church. This is celebrated in Lutheran Churches worldwide; this year it was celebrated in Lund Cathedral in Sweden with a special visit by Pope Francis, beginning a year of observation of the events 500 years ago that resulted in the Protestant Reformation. Instead of the usual 8:15 and 10:30 services, this Sunday featured a single service followed by a potluck -- I thought I would do both, but was so whipped by the end of the service, I just headed back to bed. But I did get a familiar dose of religion. The hymns were played fast. When we moved east and could only find Missouri Synod and Episcopalian churches that suited my parents, my mother's one complaint was that the music dragged. Here's a sample of the "praise band" playing "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" to give you a taste: The chatter you hear is because they reprised it at the end of the service while people were leaving the sanctuary and greeting the minister. They've adopted a version of the passing of the peace, but instead of the responsive "peace be with you" "and also with you", it was a lengthy round of "good mornings with people leaving their seats and walking all over the sanctuary. For the first time, this introvert was feeling overwhelmed! One part of the sermon really impressed me. The pastor noted that the theological differences between Lutherans and Roman Catholics have not been resolved, and never will be, but that there is growing desire for reconciliation from a contentious and sometimes violent past. The goal is not agreement, but mutual respect. I went back to room and crashed for a few hours, and was having a cup of tea when I heard this unmistakable sound: A steam engine was making its way back to Cheyenne and stopping in North Platte overnight. The news article about it has given the ETA as about 4:30, but it arrived early. So I didn't get to see it in motion, but I did join the swarm of North Platters that converged on Front Street to look and listen and take pictures. It was the biggest crowd I had seen anywhere this week! Tomorrow, if my voice is working, I will give Sharon a call, and start to plan my library talk for this Thursday.
Despite a lingering cold, today felt like a breakthrough day. I headed to the Espresso Shop for my morning coffee and work session (email and some work on an unrelated project). Within a few minutes, I caught snippets of a political conversation at a neighboring table -- "Bernie...pipeline...Hillary...Jill Stein..." -- that suggested that I had found some of the local liberals. Once voice in particular dominated the conversation, in an accent that was clearly Not From These Parts. When I hit a good stopping point, I introduced myself and joined the group for what turned into a long, interesting conversation. The alpha male was Bob from Brooklyn (he used to come to Nebraska in the summer to visit his grandparents, and now he lives here). My admission of being a church-going agnostic created quite a stir, and I was also clearly surrounded by Bernie supporters with varying levels of support for Hillary Clinton, from "no way" to "no problem". We made a date to meet at the Democratic Party gathering next Thursday night at the local wings and bowling place, and I have found my election night buddies. When the group broke up, I went back to my laptop, only to sit up and look around when I heard someone mention the Holocaust Memorial Museum. It turned out there was a group of teachers from a nearby town planning a trip to Washington, D.C. for a conference, so I introduced myself and offered to help. We had a great time talking about the Metro, the Zoo, the Smithsonian Museums and where to eat downtown. By the time they left , I had an invitation to visit a local farm this week, and maybe even ride a combine. On my way back to the motel, I lingered long enough to watch kids and parents in costume collecting candy from the local merchants as part of a downtown trick or trick event. The best news of the day is that I got a Facebook message from my classmate Sharon; I am going to give her a call as soon as this cold improves and I get my voice back!
Tomorrow: Church, and a visit with a steam engine!
Brown/Harano was the camera/photo shop where my dad took all of our film to be developed. Our only formal family portrait was taken there. So it is a pretty evocative name! And then I saw this in the window: This was my first reminder that North Platte is a very red town in a very red state. A recent straw poll by the local weekly newspaper reported that about 78% of those voting prefered Donald Trump to Hillary Clinton. (Hillary got 18%, followed by Gary Johnson with 12%, with Jill Stein, Jesus, Pedro, and Bill Murray all polling in single digits.) At the library, I talked to one of the staff members, who taught at the high school in the 60s and 70s and remembered the dress code battles of the time. Then I spent some time looking at the 1967 yearbook from North Platte High School, looking for former classmates. I found ten (!!!!) names that I recognized, four of whom still lived in town in 1999, when the last alumni directory was published. (Thank heaven for alumni directories, indexing female students by their former names and their married names!). Two of the women I found were also in my Bluebird troop. Also also found a photo of North Platte from 1875 with a label showing the location of several landmarks, including the Unitarian Church, which no longer exists. The closest UU congregation today is in Kearney, about 100 miles east of North Platte. Oh, well. I headed back to the Espresso Shop for lunch and some unrelated computer work, and overheard two patrons talking about meditation and theology. Deciding it was time to step outside my introvert bubble, I struck up a conversation and made two new acquaintances. Sherry is originally from Omaha, has lived in NP for about 30 years, and is a liberal, questioning Roman Catholic. Alan is the 3rd generation owner of the local clothing store, and promises to be a great resource on the shopping habits of local women!
i was up before dawn -- not hard, since North Platte teeters on the western edge of Central Time Zone and sunrise is about 8 a.m. this time of year. Despite a forecast of near record-breaking 80-degree heat later in the day, it was 41 degrees at 6:30. Welcome to the high plains. I had an article to revise for publication and a stack of email to answer, so I declared Day 2 my official people-watching day and headed to the local coffee shop, reputed to be where locals gather downtown. And was it ever! The Espresso Shop had everything you can get at your local Starbucks, all delivered with an extra helping of Nebraska Nice. I ordered the biggest skim latte they had and settled down with my laptop, sneaking glances at the other customers. (I eavesdropped a little too, there was a discussion about the price of hay that eluded me completely.) the clientele was an interesting satorial mix -- work jeans and trucker hats, novelty t-shirts, some business casual. In my boot cut jeans, solid blue t-shirt and black cardigan, accessorized with a batik scarf, I actually felt a little overdressed. I was the only woman I saw all day wearing a decorative scarf. Who would have thought that I would be the snappiest dresser on Jeffers Street? Once I finished my work, I set out to walk around the old downtown, once so familiar and now so changed. The Pawnee Hotel, still the tallest building in town, sits empty and waiting for its next act. The Paramount Theater across the street is a hippie clothing store. The Fox Theater, where my brother and I watched Don Winslow of the Navy serials and cartoon marathons, is now home to the local amateur theater company. I may get a ticket to their next production just to get a look at the inside. Turning west, I saw a familiar bell tower a few blocks away -- my old spiritual home, the 1st Evangelical Lutheran Church. In the building, I was struck with so many odd memories. The round posts in the parish hall were still there -- of course! They have to hold up the building; but they also were good for twirling around when cover dish suppers got too boring. I went upstairs to the sanctuary and it was all the same, except the carpet, which couldn't possibly be the original. How many Sundays did I sit looking at these very same stained glass windows? The hymns were still posted on the board, so I looked them up. The second two were after my time and unfamiliar, but the first was "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling" set to the tune Hyfrydol. The melody is a favorite of mine, even more so now that Peter Mayer has written the beautiful words of "Blue Boat Home" for this sweet old tune. This Sunday is Reformation Sunday, a very big deal in the denomination that traces its history to a firebrand monk nailing his 95 theses to the door of the church. I am planning to go, probably attending the 8:30 a.m. "traditional" service, and staying for coffee and donuts afterwards (of course!) On the way out, I also bought a ticket for the Harvest Dinner next week. Hope they don't hold it against me that I drifted away from the Trinity and became a Unitarian Universalist. I'd like to believe that a modern Luther would also have a quibble or two with church doctrine, and would add a few more theses to his very long list.
The drive from Denver was beautiful. I know that people who live elsewhere think of this part of the country as flat, empty, and boring. But here's what I thought: Vanishing Point I moseyed along my way, stopping to visit the church in Brush, Colorado, where my grandfather served as pastor eighty or so years ago. The current pastor and church secretary were warm and welcoming, and shared some of the parish's history with me. Finally, I made it to North Platte. The road into town was unrecognizable; lots of chain restaurants, a WalMart, a shopping mall. But soon I was driving through the old part of town, and over the viaduct that carries the Main Street across the railroad tracks. Within minutes, I was driving into Cody Park, past the swimming pool and the kiddie rides (closed for the season) and reaching the banks of the North Platte River. The familiar sights and smells, the grasshoppers leaping away from my footsteps, all brought tears to my eyes. A fellow about my age stopped to talk -- the first of many conversations I have had in my few hours here. And therein hangs a tale. I think of myself as an introvert, someone who is usually reluctant to chat with strangers. But the genial neighborliness I have encountered here has triggered a memory of learning to look away from strangers instead of smiling at them, to nod instead of saying hi. I remember walking down the street in Westwood, New Jersey shortly after we moved there, and saying hello to a woman only to have her look at me with a startled expresssion that clicked quickly to annoyance and then to a mask, averted away from me. So far today, I have had short conversations with:
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