It's a Midwestern thing.

The grocery store is my reentry into the heartland.

This is Essay #203

Hang on. This is really happened.

The lady behind me in the grocery checkout smiled and asked where the party was since I had purchased so much. (deep breath) Well, I came from Philadelphia, drove to Cleveland, then went to Columbus to see my music friend Charlie, and my last stop was St. Louis to see my dear friend Pam and now I’m headed to my house in farm country in the northern part of the state after being gone for almost six months with two more hours left to travel, and I had to stock up because we live in the middle of nowhere and the nearest decent grocery is almost an hour away, and even the nearest hospital is almost an hour away and living there means we have to plan, so when I’m in St. Louis visiting my friend, the last thing I do is come to a nice grocery store like Dierberg’s before I head north and buy the good stuff we can’t get without driving an hour one way.

WELL….

(deep breath) It turns out HER husband was named TIM, and he passed away from colon cancer that had metastasized to his liver just like my Tim and it happened because he was stubborn and wouldn’t get a colonoscopy either, just like my Tim, and he died at home, just like my Tim, and ever since he died she doesn’t even bother to put on make up when she goes out because she was married to her Tim for 33 years and she’s not looking for a man even though her sister, who’s name is Jackie, thinks she should at least look nice when she goes out because you never know…. and did you know you can get rhubarb $3 a pound cheaper at the farmers market?

WHEW!

Yes, all of this happened in the checkout lane. This is what midwesterners do.

We find a way to start a conversation. With anyone.

My grandmother was a master of this. I even studied her technique. Once, she scanned the customers in Walmart and zeroed in a young mother with a toddler riding in a cart full of cat food. “Hi honey,” Nellie sweetly said to this wide-eyed baby. Then, looking at mom, “you have a beautiful little girl.” Then Nellie asked about the mom’s cat and Nellie told her about HER cat. And, fifteen minutes later, we’re off to the produce department. True story.

Midwestern people are typically very friendly, especially farm people. There aren’t many of us out here, (there are about 6000 people in my entire county!) so it’s best to be nice to your neighbors. There’s a fair bit of gossip that goes on too, so also best to keep your big mouth shut.

That means I (probably) won’t go up the road to ask the neighbor who had ‘Trump was Right’ signs in his yard how all thats working out for him now. But… oh, I really want to. And I just got here, so maybe I will. (I’m surrounded by people who only watch Fox News and continually vote against their self interest and seem proud to do so, because gays and drag queens and socialism and Hillary’s emails and… JFC. Whatever feeds their fears. 🤦‍♀️)

They all think I’m crazy anyway.

When I’m in Philadelphia, I’ll talk to anyone… just like my grandmother. City people are usually tolerant and amused of my effusiveness, and will invariably ask about my “accent”. 😂

It takes awhile to make the adjustment back in Missouri, though… where no one is in a hurry and everything just takes longer. So, I figured a little check out line conversation can’t hurt.

Anyway, time flies here when there’s a sweet girl like this who needs a belly rub. And don’t let the cute cat fool you… he’s a vicious monster with only three legs and regularly picks fights with the other cats. Right around dusk, aka cocktail hour, we watch a doe and her babies venture out of the woods. And there are bird feeders to fill. And hummingbirds dive bombing you on the deck. And look at that sunset. And… you’re getting the idea.

Sable, Mr. Nell the three-legged cat, sunset at the farm

But I’m not gonna lie… it’s a culture shock coming back to the heartland, especially after being in Spain for 6 weeks and the east coast for 4 months. In fact, in the last 6 months, I’ve been in my own home for only two weeks.

I need to sleep in my own room, in my own bed. I need some “normal” time, to pull my clothes out of a drawer instead of a suitcase. So since the price of jet fuel has interrupted my travel hopes, being home is fine. For now.

The farm is my only real connection to my past and the only place that has ever felt like home. And I’ll be busy because there is ALWAYS a job to do. My brother has a list for me. Cleaning out the green house and some major weeding in the flower beds is on the agenda. And mowing. Always mowing.

Great fun!

But first, I’m off to find some rhubarb.

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"Life is simpler when you plow around the stump." Unknown Smart Person

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