A Midwest Road Trip
The memories I hold inside aren’t what I thought I’d remember.
A wedding in Minnesota brought my husband and me within spitting distance of the places where my writer role model, Laura Ingalls Wilder, author of the Little House on the Prairie books, lived long ago.
We decided to head west rather than follow my family back home, and I thought the highlights of our easy-going journey would be filled with the places Laura walked, lived and loved.
But my takeaways were so different, and it will likely happen to you if you’re soul is open to life’s little, small snippets of wonder.
We made the pilgrimage to Walnut Grove, MN (think books and not the tv series), where I saw Plum Creek at sunset, wandered over to where Pa’s dugout sod house was until the roof caved in 100 years ago. The rock Laura sat on waiting for her cow to come home is now in the creek, which made me realize time changes all things. Even Plum Creek.
But that night we stayed in a little hotel, and I had the best view of the huge prairie skies that night as the storms blew in. I burrowed under the duvet and kept the window open as I read late that night. Bad storms were forecasted, and I had a first class seat to the unending lightning that lit up the night for over five hours. Bliss.
We drove on to the town featured in Little Town on the Prairie, and while I felt the history of the place, I only felt “Laura” at her shanty surrounded by cottonwood trees. The home is gone, but the trees remain, and I saw Laura, Mary, Pa, Ma and the rest as they gathered in the Dakota wind and admired the cottonwood saplings.
At the cemetery I usually sense and feel the essence of the persons buried there, so I stared at Ma’s grave sitting next to Mary, then Carrie and baby Wilder. What I felt as I looked at Pa’s grave was the fear and waves of grief his wife must have felt on the day that stone was newly engraved.
Laura left her farm work in Missouri to see Pa and say good-bye, and as the wind pulled and puckered my blouse I saw the family gathered around their leader, gone. Too early, but a life of endless work and worry took its toll.
We drove out to see the town of Manchester, which is a now a ghost town ravaged by an F-4 tornado in 2003. Laura stayed with a homesteaders’s wife and child there, and she explained the desolate feeling among the winds buffeting the three of them seven long miles from De Smet.
Grace moved there with her husband, and I saw it. That is my other memory, tucked firmly in my mind. I saw the foundations of the buildings and houses, the endless sweep of the prairie grasses, and the faithful railroad Pa followed on his way west.
Looking around at the emptiness caught me by surprise. I sensed the mammoth tornado tearing the town’s sign and bending it. The sign remians. No person will live in Manchester again, and I felt that hollow feeling again. The loneliness. The huge sky with its myriad colors, and Laura grew clearer.
But the best part was running around with my husband, even going to Omaha, Nebraska for a steak. We wound up eating seafood, of course, since they were the only place serving after 9:00.
I’ll remember this road trip mainly for the fun stops we made. Him for whisky, me for espresso. For the walks at night. For him willingly taking me to a place where I completely geeked out. On an author!
This summer and autumn, I hope you journey somewhere, anywhere and feel surprise at what moments stun you in their sweetness. You deserve a good road trip, even with gas prices being so high. Go out and chase your dreams, but don’t be surprised if your moments are a bit different from what you expected. Have some fun!
It’s summer and the sun lingers long after sunset in the north. Enjoy the extra light, and smile at what entrances you.
