You Can Go Home Again (Step 1)

This has been a difficult story to write (actually rewrite) because there is so much information to include, yet I am also trying (but failing) to keep it from becoming too insanely long (my usual problem). I wrote the rough draft of this story in late 2003, which was a bad time for me to try to put anything in writing, even grocery lists. In addition to that, once I write something poorly, it is very difficult for me to change my perspective in order to rewrite it. Why? Because the poorly written version gets stuck in my head again every time I reread it in order to rewrite it. Of course, it also doesn't help that I've forgotten a lot of the finer details of the story after 30 years (I never ever thought I would forget anything when I was younger). Luckily, I still have the rough drafts of two or three letters I wrote at that time to help me out with some parts of this story (one of the few benefits of growing up as a packrat).

The Story
When last we met, I had just purchased a 1974 Mustang II. The date was April 7, 1978. The location was western Nebraska. The purchase was the result of an event that had taken place a couple of weeks earlier. This is the story of that event.

Brief Summary of 1976-1978
As previously mentioned, my family moved from "Earling County," South Dakota, to "Snobbytown," Nebraska, in July 1976, when I was 15. By the time the main part of this story takes place, I had spent two long, miserable years among the unfriendly, cold-hearted kids of this town (1).

I used to be a very stubborn person when it came to trying to make friends; therefore, it took me a long time to learn my lesson and stop trying to make friends with these kids (so no one can say that I did not try). More importantly -- as far as this story goes -- the more I tried and failed to make friends, the more unforgiving I became toward my parents for having put me in this situation without giving me any say in the matter (thankfully, a lot of parents are not like that anymore). Even worse, they refused to care that I was being treated like an outcast here. Whenever I mentioned it to them, they usually told me I was probably doing something to make them not like me (I'm sure we all remember how frustrating it was as kids when our parents didn't believe us; but aside from this one particular quirk, my parents were very decent to me). [Note: Years after I graduated from high school my dad finally admitted to me that he had hated it here as much as I had and that he had actually believed me when I told him what the kids were like here (because the adults weren't any better). I did my best (which was not very good) to restrain myself as I asked him, "Then why didn't we move!!!!???" He replied, "Because at that time I was too proud to admit that I had made a mistake and that you had been right." As frustrating as his answer was, it was also a relief to hear it because it proved that I had been right all along (I had given him two warnings that proved to be accurate even before we moved here). For the record, my dad was a master at getting along with almost everyone in those days, so if he had failed here, then I knew I had never stood a chance.]

Taking Matters into My Own Hands: The Story Begins
In the fall of 1977, when I was a junior in high school, I brazenly started making plans to go back to Earling County for a visit during spring break in March 1978. By that time, I had concluded that a short visit would be better than never going back at all. My plan, such as it was, involved a long-term psychological strategy that was designed to convince my parents to let me make the 630-mile roundtrip by myself since they refused to take me. Yes, it was quite a radical fantasy for a teenager, but I felt that I had nothing to lose by trying.

My strategy worked this way: I would simply begin acting as if I was going, no matter what, just as an adult would act. I figured if I did that on a very consistent basis over the course of the next few months, then they couldn't help but be subconsciously affected by my positive attitude, whereupon they would simply let me go. My approach to using this tactic was simple: Whenever there was a practical reason to bring up the subject, I would say in the most matter-of-fact nonchalant, subtle, mature tone of voice that I could muster, "WHEN I go back to South Dakota during spring break..."

I never said, "IF I go...," or "IF you let me go..." I always said, "WHEN I go..." (2).

I had chosen spring break because Earling County High School didn't have spring breaks, which meant I would be able to go to school every day for the entire week as a guest and see all of my old friends (and the many, many beautiful girls) in one place.

Did I really think it would work? Let's just say that I wasn't going to hold my breath; but in those days I still believed in miracles, so I went ahead with my plan full force and was determined never to give up, no matter how hopeless it might seem.

By January 1978, I was so deeply into it (mentioning my "for-sure trip" to my parents every chance I got) that I had actually convinced myself that I was going. In fact, on January 19, I wrote to an old best friend (who, coincidentally, had moved away from Earling County a few weeks after I did in 1976): "I am going to positively, absolutely go to [Earling] County on spring break (for one week)..." I wrote the same prediction to one or two other people over the course of the next month or so. My parents had given me no indication that they were even thinking about letting me go, but that was just a minor detail. I still had plenty of time to get them to say yes.

Additional Strategy: Practice Runs

On January 8, 1978, a week and a half before I wrote the above letter, I had talked my dad into letting me take his pickup, a 1971 Ford four-wheel drive (with no power steering, no power bakes, no cruise control) on a "short" excursion.

1971 Ford four-wheel-drive pickup; Pretty, isn't it? ;-)

Actually, my asking him to let me borrow his pickup for a short trip was not a terribly huge deal. He had let me borrow it several times when we lived in South Dakota (for trips of five or ten miles each). At that time I was only 14 and 15 years old. In fact, I had learned how to drive in this same pickup when I was 10 or 11 (and, no, I did not enjoy it, although it definitely paid off in the long run). On this newest occasion, I told my dad I was going in search of long-abandoned farms in Sioux County, NE, which was the truth (old-house exploration is the reason I had borrowed the pickup in South Dakota, too). But I had an additional plan that I did not mention to him. [Note: Below is a picture of me on January 6, 1978, two days before I went on my Sioux County excursion. I actually have a picture of me driving the pickup during that trip, but my chipmunk cheeks look pathetic in it, so this one will have to do (I will only leave it here for a short time, for obvious reasons).]

MW at work in the produce department of a

local grocery store. The person taking

the picture, a co-worker, was one of the

few really nice kids in the region,

hence my sincere smile, but he

attended another school.

A kid from Snobbytown High went on my Sioux County excursion with me (the only time we ever did anything together). Like my dad, he had no idea that I had an additional plan. After we had explored a couple of long-abandoned houses about 30 miles from Snobbytown (and a building that may have been an old post office), I told him that it would be "fun" to drive all the way to the South Dakota border (a distance of roughly 100 miles from Snobbytown) before returning home. He wasn't overly thrilled with the idea, but he didn't protest loudly enough to make me change my mind (probably why he never did anything with me again either ;-).

The sun was starting to set by the time we were about twenty miles from the border. At about the same time, we drove into a thick fog that was like driving into a wall. In the fog and darkness I took a wrong turn on one of the back roads (I guess my map wasn't very useful in foggy darkness ;-), and I ended up having to turn back when I was about three miles from the border (by my best guess). After we drove out of the fog again, it snowed on us all the way home; however, there was not much wind, and it was far too cold for it to stick to the highway, so I actually enjoyed the drive on that dark, nearly deserted two-lane highway. Not long after I arrived home, I bravely told my dad how far I had gone, because I wanted him to know -- for future reference -- that I knew how to "take care of myself" on the road. He took it well (at least I don't remember getting in trouble).

In fact, he was obviously so okay with it that he let me go on a similar trip two weeks later: On February 4, 1978, I convinced him to let me drive the pickup to Hot Springs, SD (map), which happens to be roughly 30 or 40 miles beyond where I had driven (roughly speaking) the first time. Once in Hot Springs, a friend of mine from school (a real rarity in Snobbytown) and I were supposed to spend the night with his grandparents before returning home the next day. The trip went very well, and we had fun being as free as adults; however his grandparents weren't home when we got there, so we ended up spending the night in the pickup in a motel parking lot, and we definitely froze our rear ends off!! (You'd think...)

[Musical Note: Shortly after we arrived back in town from the long trip and were driving through a residential area, this song, one of my favorites at the time (I still love it), played on the radio. For some reason I have never forgotten this bit of trivia. It was in the Top 40 at the time.]

By early March, my psychological tactic and my now proven ability to drive long distances seemed to be having an effect on my dad. He was still no where near letting me drive to "Earling County" for an entire week, but he did seem somewhat less resistant and less argumentative whenever I brought it up (or maybe he was just ignoring me ;-). Whatever his mindset really was, I continued my efforts with as much (or maybe even more) intensity than ever before.

Small (but Necessary?) Kink in My Plans
For some reason (maybe I was afraid to go alone? or maybe I felt empathy? or both?), I asked another kid, "Joe," if he wanted to go with me, even though we weren't friends. Joe had moved to Snobbytown from "Van Camp," SD (not its real name), the previous summer. He disliked it here as much as I did (and for the very same reasons), so I thought he might enjoy getting a chance to go home too. I told him that if he could get someone to come to Earling County from Van Camp to pick him up (a distance of 50 miles), then he could go with me. He eagerly agreed. Unbelievably, his parents agreed to let him go with me before mine had even agreed to let me go -- if they agreed to let me go. You can be sure that I used their permission for their son as ammunition in my own efforts to get my dad to let me go.

Bet 'cha Can't Guess...
I very briefly described the sequence of events in a letter to my old best friend (and maybe exaggerated a little, as only a kid would exaggerate, regarding the arguments): "In January, I asked 'Joe' if he would like to go along... He jumped [at the chance] in a second. So I made plans, worked out a schedule and got into a heck of a lot of arguments with my family on how I was to get there... Finally, on the very last day before spring break, I persuaded my dad to let me have the pickup!"

In spite of the blatantly leading title of this entry, did you honestly think my dad would really let me go? Needless to say, I was thrilled beyond words.

One of the last things my mom said to me before I received permission to go (or after?) was, "You can never go home again. Those kids probably won't care about you anymore."

I didn't believe her because I had the letters to prove otherwise.

Hot Springs Lesson: Not Learned
Being a kid, I still managed to skip one minor detail during my months-long planning. It was the part part where I bothered to inform my friends in Earling County that I might be coming to stay with them. I think part of the reason I made this error in judgment was because I was afraid no one would offer to let me stay with them, even though one of my best friends, "Kevin Patterson," had already invited me several times in his letters. The other part (actually it was the biggest part) had to do with the silly notion that I wanted to surprise them by showing up on their doorsteps after driving the whole way by myself. Or maybe I didn't want to get my friends' hopes up, just in case my parents refused to let me go.

The Day of Departure
Finally, the day of departure arrived. One month afterward, I wrote the following to my old best friend: "At 6:00 a.m., Saturday, March 18, we left!! I couldn't believe I was going! All the way there, 'Joe' and I talked like best friends. [The only difficulty] was that his first track meet of the season was to take place on Friday during spring break [back in Snobbytown]. So I said I would call him on Wednesday [to plan our return to Nebraska]. He [said he] could have cared less about the meet... It was the coach that made him nervous... At 11:30 AM, I dropped him off [at "Herron," the designated location in eastern Earling County. His friend was already there waiting to drive him to Van Camp.]"

Did I mention that I was "a bit" annoyed with Joe's last-second announcement regarding a track meet? Well, I definitely was. Joe had neglected to tell me about the meet at any time prior to our departure. I was angry that I now had to return to the miserable Snobbytown two days sooner than I had planned. I had waited two years for this trip and had been planning it for several months. I wasn't thrilled to have an unexpected, last-minute announcement shorten it. Joe should have changed his plans to accommodate me, not the other way around, especially at this late date.

First Official Stop
After dropping 'Joe' off with his friend, I drove back to "Earling," the town in which I had lived from 1970 to 1976 (ages 9 to 15). I shouldn't have stopped there at all because "Kevin Patterson," the friend with whom I hoped to stay, lived 35 miles northwest of "Earling."

My letter continues: "[In Earling, I] saw Tom working in [his parents' grocery] store. He was nicer and friendlier than ever before. I talked with him and Ken and some others until 4:00 PM. Tom asked me to go to the recreation hall (formerly the movie theater) with him that night to visit (so did Ken). [But I didn't have time for that.] I then left for 'Kevin Patterson's' farm because in his letters he was always [inviting me] to stay with him."

The "Fun" Begins
I drove 23 miles west on pavement, then I turned onto a gravel road to drive the remaining 12 miles. Due to the spring thaw, the gravel roads were very muddy, and it was very slow going. After the long drive up that very muddy road, not to mention the really long drive from Nebraska, I was very disheartened to find no one home at the Patterson farm. I later wrote to my old best friend: "I went to their place, but no one was home. I parked right at the edge of their driveway because it looked like a recently drained ocean up there. But I got stuck [anyway], and it took me twenty minutes to get out using two boards."

In order to get unstuck, I had put the pickup in four-wheel drive and then placed the boards under one or two wheels to get some traction. After several attempts, I made it back onto the gravel road.

Leaving it in four-wheel drive, I then drove a half mile north of the Patterson farm and turned east onto a roller-coaster road that consisted more of dirt than of gravel. I chose this muddy route -- very hesitantly -- because it was the shortest route to the farm of "Calvin and Charlie Nelson," twin brothers who had also been best friends of mine. By taking this road, I only had to drive five miles. If I had taken the only marginally safer route, I would have had to drive 30 miles. I took the two boards with me in case I got stuck again. A month after my visit, I wrote of my decision to take this road: "Then I was a nut and took the shortcut road between Patterson's and Nelson's."

I made it roughly one mile before I got stuck again, this time at the bottom of a small valley where the mud was much worse than it was on the slopes and peaks. I had already successfully raced through one or two or three similar muddy bottoms, but this one was the worst of the bunch, and I got stuck about half way through it. The more I spun the wheels to try to get out (and in spite of using the boards again), the pickup continued to slide ever closer to the steep ditch on the driver's side. For some reason the wheels on only one side of the pickup were working. After ten minutes of struggle, and with the driver's-side wheels now only inches away from going into the ditch, suddenly all four wheels kicked into gear. The pickup lurched free of its very precarious spot. You cannot imagine how relieved I was. It would have been terrible to have been stuck in a deep ditch thirteen miles from the nearest town and five and a half hours from my home with night approaching and neither the Pattersons nor the Nelsons knowing I was in their midst. Another farm was located near the spot where I had gotten stuck, but I didn't know the people who lived there, and I certainly didn't want to have to bother them.

I carefully nursed the pickup the remaining four miles (thankfully, all of which was flat) to the Nelson farm and happily knocked on their door. To my utter dismay, no one was home there either!

I was becoming quickly disillusioned, not to mention very nervous. Evening was rapidly approaching, and there was no one else I knew who would invite me to stay with them for a week. And I had no choice but to stay in Earling County because Joe, who was now comfortably situated in his hometown, would not have been able to return to Nebraska without me (at least not without a lot of difficulty). With just a bit of panic starting to set in, I waited for my friends to come home. I wasn't about to drive back to the Patterson farm on that terrible road, and I didn't want to drive the long way around for fear that the Nelsons would return as soon as I left and the Pattersons still wouldn't be home. After an hour of waiting, I gave up and drove the sixteen miles to "Annin" (where "Earling County High School" is located). I didn't know what I was going to do. I felt completely lost. How could I have been so stupid as to not tell anyone I was coming?

Arrival in "Annin"
In my letter a month later, I described what happened (without telling my friend how terribly worried I was): "When I got to Nelson's, no one was home, so I waited for an hour. No one came, and I was starved, so I decided to go to Annin to eat. When I got there, it was 6:00 PM, so I thought I would take a look at the school before it got dark [sunset was at 6:50 PM, Central Time]. As I was coming down the [side] road [from the school] toward "Pete's" Bar [which was located on Main Street], I saw two kids running across the street into [Pete's]. One was a little slower, and I knew that it was Calvin Nelson by his gorilla walk [I was exaggerating a little, of course]. I acted like I was going to hit him with the pickup. When I got within ten feet, he finally recognized me, and all he could say was, 'MW!'"

Think about this for a moment: There were approximately 800 people living in Annin in 1978, yet I had managed to stumble into Calvin and Charlie Nelson completely by accident only one minute after I had arrived. If I had not decided -- completeely on a pointless whim -- to go out of my way to look at the school before going to the restaurant, I would not have found them. I could not believe my good fortune. My relief was immense. I quickly parked and joined Calvin. Charlie had already disappeared into the bar without seeing me. Calvin and I joined him.

Securing Lodging
I learned that Pete's was a hangout for the younger adult crowd (18 being the legal drinking age in South Dakota in those days) and minors. Underage kids were allowed to hang out in the south half of Pete's, drinking pop, eating snacks and playing pool or pinball. The City Bar, on the other hand, was generally considered the hangout for older people (it was -- is -- located one door south of Pete's, just across the side street). Calvin and Charlie and their mom, "Dora," had gone into the City Bar just as I was arriving in town (not a scandalous thing in tiny western towns where there are only one or two places for people to get together to visit). The boys had not wanted to hang out with the older crowd so they were on their way to Pete's when I ran into them. If I had driven down that road five seconds earlier or later, I would have missed them.

While we were in Pete's, Calvin and Charlie asked me what I was doing in Annin. I explained that I had come to visit for the week because it was Snobbytown's spring break. They asked me where I was staying. I explained in so many formal-sounding words that I hadn't completely made that determination yet, hoping they would take the bait. They did. They immediately "dragged" me to the City Bar, where they presented me to their mother and then proceeded to "charm" her into allowing me to stay with them. It wasn’t necessary. Dora would have said yes, no matter what, and meant it with all her heart (she had known me since I was 9). She is, and has always been, one of the most generous ladies in the United States.

I hadn’t felt such intense relief in a long, long time. I had come very close to living as a transient in the freezing March weather that night -- and maybe even for the next week (at least those were the fears that had been going through my 17-year-old mind). I did not know who else to ask to take me in for a whole week. There really wasn't anyone else that I would have wanted to stay with, or who would have invited me to stay with them (maybe Tom or Ken in Earling for a night or two, but not for an entire week; besides, I had definitely not come here to stay with them).

An hour or three later, I followed the Nelsons back to their farm. We spent the rest of the weekend on their farm having as much fun as possible. I later wrote to my old best friend: "On Sunday we had to clip cow's ears (90 head). All Calvin and I did was push a few cows into the chute [every so often] and then sit and talk for a while."

I loved every minute of being on that farm, where life was so much more fulfilling and relaxing and contented. You name it.

Going to School
On Monday, I rode to school with Calvin and Charlie. I asked the principal (who was new to me) if it was OK for me to attend classes as a guest that week. He said that was fine. In April 1978, I wrote: "Then came Monday morning, and I was as nervous as a cow. We drove into town that morning, and the first person I saw as I walked into the school was 'Lorraine' [a former classmate] who acted surprised and happy to see me (she is now married to 'K.R.M.' - they're parents) [FYI: Parenthood in high school in Earling County was extremely rare]. Then I went into the hall and saw Kristi, who was sitting on the floor. I tapped her with my foot, so she would look up, and when she did she stared a second until she recognized me, and she said, 'Well, hello! Where've you been!?' Then I saw 'Sareena' and died 10,000 deaths on the spot! She is so beautiful. I went to classes with Calvin for the first five periods; then I went to the gym to watch the girls practice track for the last two periods. Everybody, and I mean everybody, was so friendly that I never wanted to leave again. That was about all I did [for the rest of the week]."

At one point that first morning, "Sarah," a younger sister of Sareena, and upon whom I had had an unrequited crush in junior high, hurried up to me in the hallway. She had heard I was back and wanted to see for herself if it was true. After I greeted her, the first thing she said (with a hint of awe) was, "Gosh, your voice is so much deeper!" I felt honored that she had come to see me. I did, however, quickly learn that she was, after two long years, still dating our fellow classmate, "T.E." They never got married to one another, though.

Initially, Kevin Patterson didn't seem very happy to see me, possibly because I had not stayed with him. I pretended not to notice his cold-shoulder treatement and visited with him as much as possible during some free time in one class. I explained that I had stopped at his house first and that I had even gotten stuck in his driveway and then again about a mile northeast of his house. He eventually warmed up and became as friendly as ever.

What My Trip Home Was Really All About
In fact, I spent a day or more at Kevin's farm. I was very happy to discover that he still had the best sense of humor in the United States.

AND! -- and this is what the trip was really all about! -- Laughter is the best medicine. And I needed huge doses of it after living in totally humorless Snobbytown for two years (NOT an exaggeration). During the time I was around Kevin I laughed as I hadn’t laughed in ages. I laughed with great gusto and sincerity and humor until I couldn’t keep my face straight for any length of time without squeezing the sides of my mouth together with my hand. Even as I laughed continuously and uncontrollably, I was aware of just how much I needed to laugh. I felt myself "healing" (so to speak) by leaps and bounds every time Kevin uttered a syllable.

One of the most memorable moments of the entire vacation came while Kevin was driving me back to the Nelson farm on that muddy back road. Of course, as is true of reading a movie script, the following brief converation will not be funny in print, especially as written by me 30 years after the fact, but, as delivered by Kevin at the time, it was hilarious. That notorious road between the Patterson farm and the Nelson farm contains several 90-degree curves.

As Kevin approached the first curve at about 40 mph, with no indication that he was planning to slow down, I panicked and said, "The sign says ‘15 mph'!"

Kevin replied, "Aw hell. If the government had its way, they'd have us get out and push our cars around these corners."

I began laughing uncontrollably, and I couldn't quit. I think I laughed for another mile or two (at 40 mph). Eventually, I knew I had probably laughed too much according to Kevin’s standards, but I couldn't stop; so I turned my head toward the passenger window and continued to laugh silently for the remainder of the drive. With each exhalation, I laughed hysterically yet silently. As I inhaled, I could feel the next laugh not wanting to wait its turn. With each laughing breath, I felt my well being increase exponentially. Oh, how I had missed all the creative kids of Earling County!

A Rare Bit of Unrepentant Selfishness on My Part
In fact, I had missed those kids so much, and I was having such a wonderful time "recuperating" among them that I got really selfish and did what many would consider a terrible thing. I didn't call Joe in Van Camp on Wednesday, as I had promised. Instead, I called him on Friday, the very day of his Snobbytown track meet. I had made him miss it, and I didn't feel bad about it at all, which was a first for me. Until that week, I would never have considered doing such a selfish thing. However, he had made it abundantly clear during our drive to Earling County that he didn't care about the meet. It was that statement that gave me the courage to be selfish.

Returning to Snobbytown
I wrote to my old friend: "They didn't have school Friday (dang bust it!!). I was having so much fun that I never did call Joe in Van Camp until Friday, so he missed his meet. We left at 6:00 AM [Saturday, March 25] from "Herron" [where I picked up Joe] (which means I got up at 5:00 AM). He didn't sleep that night, and since he was mad at me, he slept all the way back. The last thing he said to me as he got out of the pickup at his house was, 'I hate Snobbytown! There's nothing nice here!' Everything I had done for him since last fall no longer mattered. He was mad because I made him miss a track meet that he didn't care about. I even told his coach that it was my fault, but he still isn't friendly anymore."

That coach was definitely mad at me (so mad that it necessary for me to transfer out of his history class to another history class for the remainder of the year!), but I didn't care about him in the least! Nor did I care whether or not Joe liked me anymore because we hadn't really been friends prior to the trip. I just knew that he had loved the "extra two days" in South Dakota as much as I had, so he shouldn't have been mad at me. If it hadn't been for me, he wouldn't have had those two extra days to remember for the rest of his life.

Conclusion
Having been completely free for one week had a major effect on me. I could never again be the dependent kid I had always been before. I wanted to continue to have control of my own life (as much as possible). On March 31, 1978, one week after returning from Earling County, I went car hunting (on my tiny motorcycle) and saw a 1974 Mustang II at a local car dealership -- the very sort of car I had long dreamt of owning. I went home and got my dad to go back with me in his pickup. The two of us then visited with the salesman. I was allowed to test drive it for a week, and I bought it on April 7, 1978, for $1,450.00.

On May 31, 1978, my parents let me drive my new car to the northern Black Hills of South Dakota to visit my old best friend (the one to whom I had written the letter I used throughout this entry). I was only able to stay for two days because I had to return to work, but it was still great to be free to go whenever I chose to do so (relatively speaking).

I shall tell you all about "Breaking Free, Step 3" this summer.

[Musical Note: I shall always associate two top 40 songs from the week of March 18-25, 1978, with my amazing visit to Earling County. This one played on the radio just as I was struggling to wake up at 5 AM to return to Nebraska (among other times). This one played one night as we were driving around the countryside talking about girls. They were both in the Top 40 at the time.] 

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Footnotes
1.) I want to make it very clear that not all kids in western Nebraska are like the ones in Snobbytown. In fact, this town even has a reputation in the region for its snobbishness. I've heard this from several people, including one just two days ago who grew up here and then lived in other places as an adult. Here is another example: In about 2001, a new teacher was hired to teach in the school where I used to work. That school is in a town about an hour from Snobbytown (also in western Nebraska). The new teacher had lived in Snobbytown since about 1991, so his two daughters, both in their early teens, had spent their entire school lives here. They had never known anything different. The first day of school that year was only a half day long. After the final class let out for the day, I was standing in the hallway with two or three teachers, including the new teacher (whom I had actually had known when he lived in Snobbytown; in fact, it was he who had convinced me to take the job at that school back in 1998). His 8th-grade daughter saw us as she got out of class and raced quickly up to us with two or three other girls in tow (her new friends). She had a huge smile on her face. Her father asked her, "So, how do you like it here?" She replied, almost shouting with glee, "I like it waaaayyy better than Snobbytown!!!"

I forgot I was an adult at that moment and let out a huge whoop of agreement! Further vindication! ;-D

P.S. Just in case you're about to ask, no, I have no [expletive] idea what I am still doing in Snobbytown. Life doesn't always work out as we would wish.

2.) Regarding my psychological strategy to get my parents to let me drive to Earling County: For some inexplicable reason, I had come to embrace the idea that you could manipulate other people's thoughts with trickery when I was 8 or 9 years old. One day in about 1969, I found a brochure on the Cosmos, a famous tourist attraction in the Black Hills of South Dakota. I was instantly fascinated. The brochure had pictures and also explained that the laws of physics do not apply there (the brochure also used words that I could understand). In the Cosmos, balls appear to roll uphill; tall people appear to be shorter than short people, etc. I desperately wanted to experience these phenomena for myself, but I knew my parents would probably say no. So, while they were not at home one day, I packed both of their suitcases for them, hoping that would make it seem "easier" for us just to get in the car and go. When they got home, I showed them their suitcases and tried my psychology on them. They were very amused and maybe even a little impressed, but they didn't take me.

After that failure, it didn't occur to me to use that sort of psychology on them again until late 1977, shortly after I saw a fascinating portrayal of that trickery in a certain landmark movie. That trickery takes place in this short exchange. ;-) Now don't laugh, because it worked for me!

Thirty Years Ago Today - Breaking Free (Step 2)

In case you're wondering, "Step 1" will follow this post. I didn't get it posted in time on its anniversary, even though I tried. In hindsight, I'm halfway okay with that because "Step 2" provides a good lead in to "Step 1."

Step 2

On April 7, 1978 -- thirty years ago today -- I bought this car:

1974 Mustang II, Mach I, Hatchback

It was my favorite type of car in those days, and, as simple and low-budget as it may look to some people, I still love it. I took this picture on April 5, 1978, while it was sitting in my driveway. By then, I had been test driving it for six days (can you believe an auto dealership would let a 17-year-old high-school student test drive a car for that long?).

I paid a grand total of $1,450 (plus interest to the bank, of course, and entirely out of my own pocket), which I thought was a pretty good deal for a four-year-old car (well, maybe five years old, since it was possibly manufactured in 1973). They even replaced that little yellow plastic "gas cap" with a real one ;-), although it only had the gray undercoating since I didn't want to pay a small fortune to have them paint it to match the color of the car.

My purchase of this car was a direct result of an event that had taken place a couple of weeks earlier. That event -- "Breaking Free (Step 1)" -- shall be the subject of my next post.

My ownership of this car also resulted in a really HUGE event -- to be known as "Breaking Free (Step 3)" -- that took place in the summer of 1978. I still find it hard to believe that such an event as "Step 3" ever got past the wishful-thinking phase. I shall tell you that story in another 30th-anniversary post.

Fast Forward to the End

Sadly, this great little Mustang breathed its last on November 25, 1981 (but not in an accident). On that day, I had just left South Dakota State University in Brooking, SD, for the 500-mile drive to western Nebraska for Thanksgiving vacation. Another Nebraska Panhandle resident, "Tim," was carpooling with me, as was "Jennie," a resident of a town in eastern Wyoming. Just twelve miles south of Brookings, on Interstate 29, something in my engine went clank, and my car began losing power. I was only able to go another mile or so before it came to a halt. A tow truck brought it -- and us -- back to Brookings, whereupon we all got in "Tim's" car (coincidentally, a 1976 Mustang) and drove to western Nebaska. This is one of those times in which one must look on the bright side: We were all extremely lucky that my car had died only 12 miles out of town instead of 150 miles out.

My car sat in the university parking lot behind my dorm for the remainder of the school year. My dad then came with his pickup and a trailer and brought it -- and me -- back to Nebraska. I had hoped to get it fixed, but everyone was very pessimistic when I described what had happened. Most of them said it would probably need a new engine. That killed my enthusiasm for taking it somewhere for a professional opinion, especially since I would have had to pull it there (my dad was already living far away in western South Dakota). So I just let it sit in a weed patch and turn to rust. Yes, I felt bad about treating it so poorly after it had done so much for me. Yet, on the other hand, it had definitely done more for me than I had ever dreamed it would, so I still feel it was worth every penny I paid for it.

Impressionist Photography and a Musical Memory

Song Title: Back Home Again
Artist: John Denver
Date that it entered the Top 100: September 21, 1974
Peaked at No. 5 on: November 16, 1974, and remained there for two weeks.
Left the Top 100 on: December 28, 1974
Picture below taken in: August 1974 (around the time that I would have first heard Back Home Again)

Yes, at first glance, this is just a blurry, imperfectly colored, low-quality picture. At least that was my first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth impressions. I cannot tell you how disappointed I was last August when I scanned the negative and finally got to see this picture for the first time since taking it 33 years earlier (almost to the week). I had been given a once-in-a-childhood opportunity to go to the top of the tallest structure in several counties (the grain elevator) and take some pictures of the little town in which I lived.

And what did I do? Not only did I very foolishly take only one picture, but I took it with a cheap, defective camera, and I blurred it! Or maybe the shutter was defective. I don't know.

Of course, I can never go back and recapture this scene, because the past is gone, and too much of that scene is also gone, including my old home (that being the nearest building in the center foreground with my dad's blue 1971 Ford FWD pickup parked beside it; we lived in its downstairs living quarters from April 1972, to March 1975; it was torn down in the 1980s). The latter fact only made my regrets more pronounced.

Nonetheless, I wasn't about to throw this image away. No matter how flawed it might be, it still contains a lot of good memories, and disposing of good memories is a crime in my book. On the other hand, I have almost never shown off my flawed images in public either. So why am I doing it now? I'll try to explain.

Initially, for my own sake, I tried to repair as many of the hundreds of scratches and blemishes in this image as I could. Of course, in so doing, it was necessary to concentrate on every fuzzy detail. Naturally, concentrating so closely on the blurriness only increased my frustration. I was constantly punishing myself for what might have been, if only I had used used my 13-year-old head way back then and taken more than one picture. What had I been thinking wasting such a rare opportunity? Then for some strange reason, as I continued to do my repairs, my perfectionist standards began to weaken. I was beginning not to dislike the flaws as much as I once had. How could that be? Was I possibly starting to get used to it the way it is? Or was I rationalizing? Or was the surrealist in me being influenced by the spirit of some 19th-century impressionist painter? Whatever it was, the more I studied this image (and reminisced), the more I came to a particular conclusion: This is not really a snapshot of my little town in South Dakota in August 1974. Instead, it is a snapshot of my 33-year-old memory of my little town South Dakota, in August 1974. It's as simple as that, and it feels right.

Just study the specific details of this image for a while (the alley, the yard behind the hotel, the rolling hills in the background, etc.) at the largest size. If you have an open mind, you may see what I mean.

Musical Memory
On September 21, 1974, John Denver's Back Home Again entered the top 100. I was just learning to love music that year. One night when there was no school the next day, I fell asleep on the living-room floor (about 15 or 20 feet directly on the other side of my dad's pickup in the picture above). Occasionally, my parents would let me sleep there the whole night. In those days I used to listen to the radio every night in order to fall asleep (usually 1520 KOMA, Oklahoma City). I always kept the volume at about one decibel above inaudible. If it was any louder than that, it would eventually wake me up in the middle of the night in a most unpleasant way.

There were, however several songs in those days that frequently woke me up in a most pleasant way (but only if the volume was extremely low). One night when I was sleeping peacefully in a sleeping bag on the living-room floor, Back Home Again started playing. It must have been about 3 AM. It woke me up in that perfectly peaceful middle-of-the-night way that is impossible to describe. I lay there, three-fourths-asleep, and listened to the lyrics. Somehow, certain parts struck me as a perfect description of the life I was living at that time. Since I lived near Interstate 90, the particular lyrics that affected me most were, "There's a truck out on the four-lane a mile or more away..." and later, "There's a fire softly burnin', supper's on the stove..."

I lay there at age 13 and listened to that song and felt perfectly protected in my little world. It was a magically simple night that I have never forgotten.

Hey! I've Adapted Before

Job description: "SOUTH DAKOTA Womens Prison is looking for someone to supervise female inmates. Full & part-time positions available. 605-773-3382." Think I'm suited for it? LOLOLOLOLOL!!!! ;-D

A Moment Lost in Time

Song Title: Strangers in the Night
Artist: Frank Sinatra
Date that it entered the Top 100: May 7, 1966
Peaked at No. 1 on: June 18, 1966, and remained there for one week.
Left the Top 100 on: August 13, 1966

In early 1982, I was a junior at South Dakota State University in Brookings. It was my first and only year in attendance there. I was living in Hansen Hall on the far western edge of the campus. At about 1 in the morning, the fire alarm went off. Needless to say, this was an extremely inconvenient time for a drill (or a prank). Many of the residents of the western half of the dorm, the men's side -- all four floors of them -- filed out the remote west exit of the building. Scattered amongst the crowd were one or two female students who had obviously stayed on the men's side past the midnight curfew.

As you might expect, we were all a pretty unhappy bunch of exiles as we stood there in the cold night air, many with no shoes, staring silently at the sidewalk or at one another. Several of the guys were wrapped only in blankets, as they had been deep asleep when the alarm went off. I believe I had been awake at the time, so I was lucky enough to have my clothes on. One seemingly unhappy guy from the first floor (my floor) was slowly milling around in circles, trying to keep warm, and bearing his usual ultra-deadpan expression. I had seldom ever seen this guy speak more than a few words. He just didn't seem to be the talkative type. One of his friends, a fairly tall guy, was standing silently, unhappily, in one place, just watching him mill around. Very few of us were speaking to one another. It was simply too late, and none of us wanted to be there. I wasn't thinking much of anything as I watched the people watching one another or trying not to watch one another.

Suddenly, the milling guy, who was standing about three feet in front of me, reached out from under his blanket, grabbed the sides of his friend's face with both hands, looked him directly in the eyes and sang with great meaning, "Strangers in the night, exchanging glances..." Then he let go and went on about his milling again, and the friend just continued to stare silently.

I don't remember what the rest of the crowd did, probably nothing, but I started laughing uncontrollably under my breath, the same sort of uncontrollable laugh that I am experiencing now, even as I write this, 24 years later.

It was one of those magical moments in life that make this annoying experience worth the effort.

Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

This entry is a "counterbalance" to my previous entry.

In September 1974, when I was 13, we made a trip to Middleville, SD (not its real name). My dad was interested in purchasing the ancient "Duff Hotel" (located on main street) and having us move there to operate it. As with our own "Earling Hotel" in Earling, SD (not the real name of the hotel or the town), the Duff Hotel's ground floor was a full residence, in which we would live.

From about September 1971, when I started the 5th grade in Earling, through early 1974, I had occasionally asked my parents if we could move away from Earling because I wasn't that fond of the place. After my future best friend's arrival in early 1974, my desire to move slowly started to disappear. By September 1974, I was probably not yet entirely opposed to moving; however, living in Earling was finally starting to become more enjoyable. If we had not been out of town so frequently that summer on vacation trips to California, eastern South Dakota and Missouri, I would have seen my new best friend even more, and so my desire to stay might have been even stronger than it was.

As we departed from Earling on a Saturday, bound for Middleville, I was probably looking forward to the adventure and maybe even to the promise of starting over in a new location.

Then we arrived in Middleville.

From that moment on, my opinion about moving, at least to Middleville, changed dramatically.

The hotel was very old, very poorly lit and, as a consequence, very depressing. The interior seemed as if it had last been remodeled in 1900. It just felt like the sort of place where social losers and 90-year-old hermits would come to hide away from the world. I couldn't imagine living in such a place (at least not until I was a 90-year-old loser hermit).

My parents and my younger brother and I sat in the living room and visited with the poorly dressed, overweight woman who owned the place. She had a somewhat attractive daughter, who was about my age. I remember being somewhat receptive to her presence, but I couldn't concentrate on her because I was more interested in getting out of that town and going back home. Knowing me, I probably whispered my opinion of the place to my parents every time the opportunity arose and was either ignored or told to be quiet.

Sometime after sunset, I went outside and stood there, frustrated with my inability to have a say in my own future. I stood in front of the hotel and inspected Main Street by the light of the street lamps. A few feet away, at the corner of the hotel, a few kids my age were standing in a group. They completely ignored me. The hotel owner's daughter was among them. They were all smoking cigarettes. To me, that made them a gang of total delinquents. My assessment of Middleville and its inhabitants was suddenly complete and completely irrevocable. There was no way on earth I would agree to our moving to a place where I would have to grow up among "those sorts of kids." In "Earling" County, I had seen practically no kids who smoked. As such, I had been very well insulated from humanity's more unpleasant realities (according to my innocent standards).

I hoped beyond hope that my dad would not be interested in buying the hotel. As soon as we were alone, I told them what I had seen outside and insisted very strongly that we not move there. I continued to insist, even though I was pushing my luck by being so demanding. I'm sure my dad lost his temper with me more than once, but I was convinced that my childhood would be going down the toilet if we moved to a town like that. Incurring the wrath of my dad for a short period of time was vastly preferable to ruining the remaining years of my youth by living it out in a dump of a hotel in a dump of a town with "trashy" kids.

We stayed that night in the hotel (I must have blotted this out in my mind because I cannot remember it at all). We left for home the next morning (Sunday).

I was completely distraught during the trip home. I continued to argue for the first hour or so (maybe more), and I'm sure my dad finally lost his temper, saying that the decision was final. We would be moving to Middleville as soon as possible. I was forced to give up for the time being. I lay in the back seat (my antagonistic younger brother must have been in the front seat between my parents), pretending to sleep while secretly shedding a few tears. I was now old enough (tears aside) that I thought my opinion should count for something.

But it didn't.

Even a brief sightseeing tour through the Badlands did not cheer me up. I could not stop thinking that I would soon be living among "delinquent" kids, and my dad didn't care.

Then, somewhere between the Badlands and Earling, as I lay in the back seat, I had an idea. It was a long shot (and then some), but it was better than doing nothing at all.

As soon as we arrived home, and the coast appeared to be clear, I went into my dad's makeshift office to put my plan into action. I knew my own handwriting was still clearly recognizable as a kid's handwriting, so I put some paper in my old Royal Typewriter.

First things first, I had to come up with both a realistic man's name and a town name. They had to seem relatively unique and authentic. It wasn't so difficult making up the man's name (although I can no longer remember what it was), but I was drawing a blank as far as a town name was concerned. As I stared at the junk on top of the desk, I saw a catalog. In the small print on the back cover, I saw "Modesto, California." It sounded like a convincing name.

I then typed something along these lines:

"Dear Mr. [MW's father],

"We are sorry to inform you that the Duff Hotel has been sold to Joseph Henderson of Modesto, California. We thank you for your interest."

Sincerely..."

That was essentially all I wrote. I then put an envelope in the typewriter and typed my dad's name and address. In the return-address spot, I typed the owner's name and "Duff Hotel, Middleville, SD." After stamping it, I walked to the post office, about a block and a half down main street from our Earling Hotel.

It was a very quiet Sunday afternoon. Everything was closed; not a soul in sight. As I contemplated what I was doing, my greatest fear was that my dad would notice that the postmark was from "Earling, SD," instead of from "Middleville, SD." It was a chance I was completely willing to take. Besides, I knew him well enough to know that he seldom paid attention to such details. If he did notice it, then it would be purely by accident. I also had to hope that neither he nor the hotel owner would decide to call one another.

Yes, my scheme was extremely risky; nonetheless, as soon as I dropped the letter in the slot, I felt a great sense of relief -- and empowerment. I, a mere 13-year-old, was taking not only my own future but also my family's future into my own hands. All that remained now was to lay low and wait.

Normally, I picked up the mail every day at the post office during my walk home from school, but this time I didn't want to be associated with that letter in any way, shape or form. I wanted it to look like a completely legitimate letter, and that could only be accomplished if my dad or my mom picked up the mail and saw that letter in the box. I believe I even stayed away from home after school for the next day or two so that I wouldn't be asked to go get the mail. Besides, I especially didn't want to be around when my dad finally read the letter.

I don't remember the next few days very well. I just kept hoping that I wouldn't suddenly hear my dad shout my name at the top of his lungs. Luckily, that didn't happen. I cannot believe my parents didn't wonder why I had suddenly stopped protesting our possible move to Middleville. They should have known that was unlike me. In fact, I didn't even tell my best friend what I had done because he might inevitably have told someone else (for instance his own parents), and they would eventually have told someone else, and ultimately the story would have reached my dad through the grapevine (as for telling my brother, that would have been like personally whispering it in my dad's ear; my idiot brother would have "tattled" on me even if he had been a co-conspirator). Not only would I be up a certain creek without a paddle, there might still have been time for my dad to call the owner and buy the hotel.

It took a while for the results of my scheme to trickle down to my ears, but.....

Guess what.....

It worked!

It actually worked!

I had outwitted my dad and changed the course of our family history. Even more importantly, I had changed the course of my own life!

I don't remember when I became aware of my success, because I had kept my distance from my dad for several days or more, and I certainly never again asked about our possible move to Middleville (you would think they might have at least noticed that little detail...). When I did learn the news (probably from my mom), I had to turn somersaults silently. Speaking of which..., you do realize just how incredibly difficult it is for a 13-year-old to celebrate anything silentlly, don't you? But that's what I did, because that's how desperate I was not to move and/or get caught.

I even continued to refuse to tell any of my friends what I had done because of my respect for the power of the grapevine. As long as I was a kid, my dad could never learn what I had done. I don't remember when I finally did spill the beans to one of my friends in Earling County (maybe I never did).

Sometime in the early 1980s, when I was in college, I decided it was safe to "confess" to my mom (she had played no real part in the Middleville deal). She was utterly shocked. She quickly warned me that it would still be unwise to confess to my dad, because he had been extremely angry when he read that letter. She told me that he (as well as she) had been completely fooled by it.

My mom eventually blew the secret herself and told my dad what I had done (she has always been a terrible secret keeper). One day a few years later, my dad or I finally mentioned the subject to the other. He told me what Mom had told him. I replied with the hugest, most sincere smile he had seen on me in years.

What else could I say? :-)

I had waited for over ten years for this moment! It was finally time to rub my dad's nose in my one-and-only "glorious" victory as a kid. And, let me tell you, I had a blast -- but all in good fun, of course.

He was still very irritated about it, because, as he explained it, there had been an economic boom near Middleville right after we had visited the town, and he might have made a lot of money by immediately turning around and reselling the hotel during the height of that boom.

I replied that I couldn't care less about any lost profits. In fact, I told him that he could have made a million dollars, as far as I was concerned, and it still would not have been worth it for me to have lived in that miserable town.

Yes, dear reader, I am still very proud of what I accomplished on that Sunday in September 1974. I had scored a victory for powerless kids everywhere.

P.S. To this day, my mom regrets that she didn't save that letter as a treasured family memento (she now gets a real kick out of my success also). I agree completely. I used to be a major pack rat (maybe I still am), but I was so intent on staying away from my dad after I mailed that letter that I wasn't about to take a chance on looking for it.

Thirty Years Ago Today

In an attempt to be profound in this entry, I must also show you my self-centered side. I know you'll indulge me, just this once.

But first, a little rambling...

One of these days, those of you who are younger than I am by ten or twenty years will be in the same place I am right now -- that vague void between young age and old age that is sometimes known as limbo (this vague void is more pronounced if you are still single). Old people will see you as young (but not for much longer), and young people will see you as old (forevermore). As for most people your own age, they will be busy with their own families and/or careers.

When you arrive here -- in this vague void -- you will finally understand just how wrong it feels to use the phrase, "It was thirty years ago today...," when referring to a day that you can remember as if it were only yesterday. For instance, ten years ago, when I was 35, I could have said, "It was thirty years ago today...," and I would not have caused myself too much mental stress. Why? Because my memories of my life at the age of five are really vague. It was still the beginning of my life. Today, at the age of 45, when I say, "It was thirty years ago today...," I am referring to myself at the age of 15. My life at that age doesn't feel like another lifetime. The memories are still really clear. In fact, it feels as if it were only yesterday in some ways. I was pretty much the same person then as I am now (only with a lot less experience and a lot more optimism because of it).

But there is more: What if time also seemed to stop for me "thirty years ago today"? Of course, I don't mean that in the literal sense. Rather it stopped in more of a metaphysical, science-fictiony sort of way, wherein the protagonist says, "Hold on a minute; I'll be right back." Then he steps through a door and into a waiting room in the Twilight Zone, never to be heard from again.

I am like that protagonist. Even now I am able to look back through that door and see that day in 1976, exactly as it was, waiting for me to return.

But, of course, I cannot return. I can only view it in sad resignation (even if I could return, what sort of bag of mixed blessings would await me?).

The main point of this rambling, pseudo-philosophical prelude is the fact that when I utter the phrase, "It was thirty years ago today...," it feels really wrong, or rather unreal. I was only supposed to be gone a minute...

Okay I suppose I'll Get to the Anti-Climactic Point.
It was thirty years ago today (Wednesday, July 21, 1976), that my family moved from our home in central South Dakota to a home here in western Nebraska. I desperately did not want to move here. We had visited this town six weeks earlier, and I did not like what I had seen. Please don't jump to conclusions, though. I didn't even know that my parents were considering moving here when we made that visit, so one cannot say that I was judging it through biased eyes. I just didn't like the general unfriendliness of the residents of this area. They seemed to exude a strong air of conceit and snobbishness, even when they were trying to be friendly.

As for a sense of humor in the local population, it was totally non-existent (and nothing has changed). That didn't bode well for a kid who had grown up in a place where good-natured sarcastic humor was everything to everyone.

As for my own generation, the kids in this area were especially rude, conceited and humorless. They were even foul mouthed right in front of adults. That was a new experience for my family, and it should have given my dad (a former teacher) pause in his plans to move here, but it didn't. His mind was already made up.

As I reread the previous three paragraphs, I can sense that everyone who reads it must surely think I am exaggerating. Regrettably, I am not.

During the last day of that short "reconnaissance" visit, while my parents were out with the "boss" and his wife, I accidentally learned that we would be moving here. I can remember the blood going to my feet and my indignation rising in my brain when I looked on the "boss's" refrigerator and saw "house hunting with the 'MW' family" scrawled on a note. That gave me six weeks in which to try to convince my dad to change his mind, while also anticipating with terrible dread "the end" of "paradise" as I knew it.

As you already know, I was unsuccessful in changing his mind, but I never stopped trying, even after we had moved here (I did it more for the sake of revenge after we had moved here, because I hated that I had been treated as if my life and goals were meaningless).

Worst of all, there had been no sense in my dad's decision to move here. He was doing extremely well at his "district manager's" job in South Dakota, consistently beating most other district managers in the region (that's why the "boss" liked him so much). The move to this town (the "boss's" home town) was purely optional and completely superfluous.

Of course, the unfriendliness of the people in this town wasn't my only reason for not wanting to move here. I desperately did not want to leave my old home and my best friends either, all of whom looked positively saintly and exciting compared to the kids here. It had taken me a long time to start liking it in that little town in South Dakota and to make real friends there. In fact, I had even started to love living in that little town, in spite of its own numerous flaws.

How It Turned Out in Nebraska
When we arrived here thirty years ago today (egad, it's hard to write that!), there was still one month of summer vacation remaining. It gave me time to acclimate myself to my new environment before dealing with a new school and new classmates. We lived a few hundred yards outside the city limits, so my brother and I were isolated from most of the rest of the town and its inhabitants. By early August, I had started to imagine that I might not hate it here as much as I originally thought I would. I was even considering the possibility that I might make even better friends here than I had in South Dakota. It's not that I was thinking maturely. I was simply a natural-born optimist in those days (as I state in the fourth paragraph). The hopeful kid in me couldn't help but fantasize that there were great friends and beautiful girls just waiting to be met once school started.

When school finally did start, I was still optimistic -- and nervous. Within two days, my optimism was out the window. I realized I had accurately described the kids here two and a half months earlier. In fact, I had been too kind in my description of them (there were very few attractive girls either).

Making matters worse (ironically), I was a friendly, naive and optimistic sort. The kids here were cold and unfriendly. They took delight in laughing in the faces of new kids who were friendly, naive and optimistic. It took me a long, long time to learn to give up trying to become friends with any of them (there were a couple of very minor exceptions). When I finally did give up, I was a lot more cynical than I had ever been before. A lot of the kids in my hometown in South Dakota may have been obnoxious troublemakers a lot of the time, but when it came right down to it, most of them, deep down, were good-natured, friendly characters who would go out of their way to make a person feel welcome.

Naturally, my parents refused to believe me when I told them about my experiences with the local kids (at least that's what my dad told me at the time). They were convinced that I was either making it up (they knew I had not wanted to move here) or that it was my fault that I couldn't make any friends. As a result, I grew to resent them more and more with every passing day for ever bringing me to this place against my will and then not believing me when I tried to tell them what it was like for me here (long story as to why I am here again at this time). This was somewhat ironic in my dad's case, because his parents had moved him from his beloved hometown in South Dakota when he was a freshman, and he had spent the next two years doing everything he could to get them to move back, to no avail. You would think he would have realized that he had become his dad and was putting me through the same situation that he had experienced.
Conclusion
I spent two long, miserable years here as a sophomore and junior. Near the end of my junior year, I was lucky enough to spend a week with friends in my old home in South Dakota (my parents let me make the trip alone). I even went to school every day as a guest. It was a truly wonderful experience. Kids who had hardly noticed me before were genuinely happy to see me again. I was treated like an honored guest. After two years of nothing but rudeness, insults and indifference, I felt as if I was in heaven.

Long story short (I'll tell it at length some other time), in August 1978, I was actually able to return to my old home in South Dakota -- alone -- and attend my entire senior year of school there. My parents were actually enlightened enough to trust me (my dad may have had enough of my continual complaining, too ;-). Besides, I stayed with some of their old acquaintances anyway, so they felt it was safe. Aside from the family with whom I stayed, it was a dream come true.
Endnote
Not long after moving here, it had become clear that my dad's "boss" had greatly exaggerated the "potential" of this area with regard to product sales. By then, my dad was too proud to admit his mistake, especially to me, because he would have been admitting that I, a mere kid, had been right about this place all along. Years later, when I was in college, and he was living in South Dakota, Montana or Wyoming, he admitted that I had been right about the people of this town all along. He had hated it here as much as I did. I refrained from screaming this question at him: "Then why did we stay?! And why did you let me think I was losing my mind all those years?!" His reply: "Because you were a pain in the ass back then. I wasn't about to let you know that you were right."]

1899

The following newspaper account was published 106 years ago. In light of the present flooding in New Orleans, I was suddenly reminded of it once again. The article was published in the Springfield Times newspaper of Springfield, South Dakota, and concerns a sudden spring flood on the Missouri River. Springfield sits high above the river and was unaffected, but the farmers who lived in the river valley, many near the tiny village of Bon Homme, were inundated in the middle of the night far more rapidly than they had expected. My great-grandfather and his family (same last name as my own) lived in the river valley near Bon Homme. So, keep an eye out for a familiar name.

Also, as you read, keep in mind that "the bottom" is what they called the land lying in the river valley. Also note that this flood took place some years before my own grandfather was born. Comments in brackets [ ] are my own.

April 20, 1899

The Flood At Bon Homme

A correspondent yesterday sent the following concerning the flood at Bon Homme and the island [also named Bon Homme].

Tuesday morning found the bottom opposite the red bridge all under water 6 feet, and rising 2 feet an hour. J.T. Kountz started across with two skiffs to tender assistance to the families whose houses were in two feet of water and others approaching the mark. Mr. Wadams had all his earthly effects on a knoll by the house, the safest spot in sight.

From there Kountz rowed down to Frank Byrnes', who, with all his cattle and hogs, was waiting proffered assistance, should there be any. From there he went down to Frank [Younameit's farm] and found him and his family stowed away in the garret [attic], and the water slowly reaching them. The roof boards were knocked off, and six children and the mother were handed into the skiff, when all rowed two miles across the big expanse of [flood] water to the main land. [One of the six children was only a one-month-old.]

F. Blachnik and wife and five children, with George Royer's family, were then rowed to Frank Byrnes' house to await the arrival of the gasoline ferry "The Swallow" from Springfield, which Mr. Peter Byrnes had ordered down in charge of Capt. Hutton... Mr. Blachnik remained on a ridge with his horses [surrounded by water]. Jake, the Russian miller, rendered valuable assistance in the rescue with his boat.

...Today the people are turning their attention to Bon Homme Island, which is also submerged with families looking for assistance. They will be hard to reach on the swift current with no really good skiff here.

END OF ARTICLE

Update: In the 1950s, the Army Corps of Engineers began building several dams on the Missouri River in South Dakota. The area affected by the flood in the story above, including my great-grandfather's farm, has been permanently under water since the early 1960s.

I Still Cannot Believe It

Parts of the following story were originally written the day after the event took place in July 1983, when I was 22 years old. Its updating at this time was inspired by a diary I read a while back. I don't know why that story inspired me to publish this one, because they are not really all that much alike. But that's OK.

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After four days of hard work building a swimming pool in Rapid City, SD (trying to dig a big hole in solid Black Hills rock with a shovel, or so it seemed to me), I was in a hurry to get home to western Nebraska for an extended Fourth-of-July week-end. As I was leaving headquarters, my employer handed me my paycheck. I decided to stop at my employer's bank to cash it while I was leaving town. By doing so at that particular bank, I figured they couldn't refuse me (I imagined the exchange going something like this: "Do you have an account here, sir?" -- "No, I don't, but my employer sure does." -- "Well, that's good enough for us.").

As I drove to the bank, I remembered that I had still not cashed my previous paycheck either (hard to do when working ten or more hours a day, six days a week). I wasn't so sure they would cash that check, though, because it had been made out on an account from a bank in central South Dakota (where my employer's main headquarters was located, and where I had been living most of that summer).

Several times during the drive to the bank, I almost changed my mind and didn't stop because I didn't want to put up with any possible hassle. But I stopped anyway. Soon, I was standing in a very busy bank trying to decide which teller's line looked the shortest. As I did this, I also looked at each of the tellers to see which one was the most attractive (yeah, yeah, I know, shallow), and I also read each of their name plates. I didn't really get a chance to determine which one was the most attractive because the line at the teller's window nearest to the front door had grown much shorter than the others in a shorter space of time. I was fine with that, because that teller had sort of caught my eye anyway. So I got in that line to wait.

As I slowly approached the window, I looked at the teller and seriously thought to myself, “I should know her.”

The problem is: I have played that "game" with lots of strangers in the crowd over the years. It had become such a routine that I didn't put too much stock in seeing yet "another familiar face." Besides, her familiarity was just “too far gone” for me to try to remember where I might have seen her before, or even if I had seen her before. Her name plate read “Becky,” but that didn't ring any conscious bells.

When I finally arrived at the window, I asked her if she could cash my payroll check since it had been made out through her bank. She asked me if the company I worked for was a local business.

I said, "Yes, it is."

She then instructed me to endorse the check. Before doing so, I also showed her the check that had been made out through the bank in Pierre, South Dakota (pronounced "peer"), and asked her if she could cash it also.

She answered me with a somewhat unusual emphasis in her voice while I endorsed the first check: “Yes, I’m from Pierre."

I simply assumed that was her way of telling me that she had heard of the bank in question. I smiled and continued endorsing my checks; but in that moment certain subconscious thoughts and intuitions entered my mind. They never had a chance to materialize fully, though, because in that same instant, as I was still endorsing, she continued, “You probably won’t remember me, but --”

And in that very instant, all the clues came together, and I did remember. I said with barely subdued excitement, “Oh, I sure do.”

We had been classmates in Pierre in third grade, THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER! And we had not seen each other since then! In fact, she had been (at least in my very young mind) something resembling my first girl friend. If not that, then she was definitely my first close female friend.

All I could say to her was, “How? I don’t believe it! How could you ever have recognized me?!”

“I recognized you when you walked in.”

I pointed at her nameplate and said, “The second you said that to me, your name -- and Pierre -- flashed through my mind, and I knew.” Then, after a couple of seconds, I added with a smile, “I went with you to your house once, and we played dolls. Didn’t we?” I could almost feel the customers in line behind me smiling.

She smiled at the memory too and nodded her head in affirmation.

From then on, all I could keep saying was, “I don’t believe it!”

I also told her, “People say I don’t even look like I did when I was a senior in high school, and that was only four years ago.”

She said simply and with such a quiet confidence, “I recognized you.”

She then asked what I’d done after third grade. I answered her in one or two sentences because I felt I couldn’t chit chat too much with a long line of people waiting behind me (I was also nervous talking about personal things in front of her bosses in a busy bank). I told her that my family had moved to a small town fifty miles southeast of Pierre in the summer after my third-grade year, and that I had attended fourth through ninth grades there -- then Nebraska. She told me she had moved to Washington state after third grade (I never did think to ask what she was doing back in South Dakota).

I continued repeating how unbelievable it was that she had recognized me.

She kept insisting that I come back and visit her.

I told her that I would definitely do that. And I meant it.

After she had cashed my checks, I left because the bank had been so busy at that moment (par for the course, and very annoying). I had really wanted to stay and visit with her some more, but I had been very nervous in front of all those people. I also felt it would be presumptuous of me to hang around waiting for her to go on break (in my nervous state, it didn't occur to me to ask her). I also didn’t know what her bosses would think of such fraternizing during working hours, so I reluctantly left.

I felt terrible during the long drive to my home in Nebraska. I kept thinking how I might have handled the situation better if only I had not been so flustered and caught off guard (normally, I am the person who recognizes "long-lost" people first). I also knew that I would not be returning to Rapid City in the near future, as my work would require me to return to my home in the central part of the state (three and a half hours east of Rapid City). That meant I would not get a chance to see her in the near future.

The thing that bothered me the most was the fact that I had not thought to see if she was wearing a wedding ring (I didn't want to be "fraternizing" with a married woman, or getting my hopes up if she was married). Nearly as disappointing was the fact that I had forgotten what she looked like as soon as I left the bank. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember her face.

Sadly, a year would pass before I had a chance to return to Rapid City (doing the same construction work). We were there for a week or two, but, due to our very long work days, I never had an opportunity to return to the bank (and my bosses would never have allowed me time off during working hours). Therefore, my only opportunity came the day after my last day with the swimming-pool company (as I was preparing to return to college after a two-year break). While on my way out of town, I stopped in the bank to see if Becky still worked there. I was very nervous. The teller with whom I spoke said that she would not be in to work for several more hours. I couldn’t wait that long, so, with great reluctance, I departed for Nebraska. A few days later, I enrolled in college. One year later at that college, I met a certain Iranian woman, and my world was turned upside down forevermore. All thoughts of old classmates from grade school were erased from my mind for quite some time. I will always regret that.

Final note: It didn't occur to me until just now, as I rewrite this for Blogger, that I probably gave Becky the wrong impression when I said I was working for a local company. She must have thought I was actually living in Rapid City; therefore, when I never returned to visit her, she must have thought I didn't mean any of the things I had said.

Darn it.