It was once again time to head to New Mexico and old Mesilla - a quick trip as I had to sandwich it in between obligations before and after. But it was urgent, some relating to my adobe in Old Mesilla.
My pal Tom from St. Paul had expressed the desire to come along, and this was a good time for it. I would pick him up at his mother's home in Worthington, in the southwest corner of Minnesota.
On a sunny morning I toss some gear into my GMC and head west to the Mississippi and Dubuque. Then its straight west on U.S. 20. It's a divided highway, much less traffic than on I-80, making for easy, pleasant driving. Being the same latitude as Monroe, the corn is about the same size, a couple of inches high, and the rows now easily visible.
I tune into Chicago's WBBM as son John is anchoring. That's not his day job. He fills in occasionally on weekends and holidays, his "fun job" that he does to keep his announcing skills sharp.
I pass through Dyersville, where the movie "Field of Dreams" was filmed. Then it's past Manchester, Waterloo, and over to Fort Dodge in central Iowa. The mild temperatures, blue sky filled with fluffy white, clouds, and classic Iowa countryside make for pleasant driving.
At Fort Dodge, I turn north, continuing through typical Iowa countryside and well-manicured small towns. Esterville is an especially neat looking town with its well-kept, prosperous looking main street and courthouse square.
I soon reach the Minnesota border. Although known as the land of 10,000 lakes and sky blue waters, it has its share of high-powered corn and soybean land, especially in that corner of southwest Minnesota. I reach I-90 and travel the remaining short distance west to Worthington and Tom's mother's house.
Tom's mother is a couple months short of her 99th birthday, keeps and manages her own house, and is mentally sharp. The next morning, she insists on feeding us breakfast before sending us on our way. Remarkable.
It is Memorial Day, but as we take roads less traveled, we're not worried about holiday traffic. We stay on I-90 for awhile, across the South Dakota line, past Sioux Falls and over to Mitchell, home of the Corn Palace, and the George McGovern Museum. But instead of visiting there, we turn south, across more flat crop and pastureland. The temperature is still in the pleasant 70s with nice sunshine. There is a lot of standing water in the fields, but the pasture land is rich and green.
We turn west near the South Dakota-Nebraska line, cross the Missouri River, and turn south into Nebraska. Then its west on Nebraska Route 12, billed as the "Outlaw Trail." This is clearly beef country, the tall grass reaching the bellies of grazing cattle.
Upon reaching Valentine, county seat of Cherry County, billed as the "Heart of Beef Country," we find a restaurant that's open on this holiday and stop for a bite. I ask the middle-aged waitress if she can guarantee that the beef in this sandwich is genuine Nebraska beef. She replies that she cannot and quickly tends to other customers.
When she returns, I ask her if she is a Cornhusker fan. She replies that she isn't sure.
I'm shocked; she is the lone Nebraskan I ever met who doesn't live and die by the Cornhuskers. I need to pursue this with her, but she quickly walks away. It's clear she is not interested in my usual inquiries about local culture.
As we head out to the parking lot, we note a couple of guys standing by a truck marked "Storm Tracker." There are some looming clouds in the skies to the west. These lads are probably hoping for a tornado. We can do without that.
We head west on U.S. 20 across the northern edge of Nebraska's scenic Sandhills. The rain starts but it's sporadic. It looks as if we're going to get around the storm. At Merriman, we turn south across the heart of the sand hills. These ecologically fragile hills are always spectacular, but with the recent rains, they are a rich green dotted with herds of contentedly grazing beef cattle, mostly Black Angus.
As we get further south on this lightly traveled road - only an occasional pickup truck - the sky opens up. The temperature drops to the mid 50s and the strong west wind picks up, rocking my pickup. All of the cattle in every herd we see are lined up in military fashion, facing east, away from the strong west wind and driven, chilly rain.
Nevertheless, it's a gorgeous, scenic drive. We soon reach Ogallala on the Platte River. Ironic that we reach Ogallala on Memorial Day when they have paid respects to vets. I recall a day over a half century ago, traveling on U.S. 30, when they paid a few Marines absolutely no respect.
After boot camp, infantry training, and Radio Operators School, nine months in the Corps, we had finally received our first hard-earned stripe. My traveling companions were slated for the 1st Marine Division, and I for the 2nd Marine Air Wing. But first, we needed some respite from the iron discipline of the Corps.
Going through Ogallala, I committed a minor traffic offense. The cop could have let me off with a warning. Instead, he led me downtown to some office. The presiding official, whatever the hell he was, gave me a stern lecture. Then the officious jerk fined me 14 bucks, a substantial portion of a PFC's monthly pay.
Okay, no big deal, and it didn't negatively affect my life. And I'm sure that Ogallala appropriately honored vets this Memorial Day. But given that historical lack of respect for a few teenaged Marines, I remember Ogallala in a different way and can't resist the opportunity to poke some fun at it.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears Fridays in The Monroe Times.
My pal Tom from St. Paul had expressed the desire to come along, and this was a good time for it. I would pick him up at his mother's home in Worthington, in the southwest corner of Minnesota.
On a sunny morning I toss some gear into my GMC and head west to the Mississippi and Dubuque. Then its straight west on U.S. 20. It's a divided highway, much less traffic than on I-80, making for easy, pleasant driving. Being the same latitude as Monroe, the corn is about the same size, a couple of inches high, and the rows now easily visible.
I tune into Chicago's WBBM as son John is anchoring. That's not his day job. He fills in occasionally on weekends and holidays, his "fun job" that he does to keep his announcing skills sharp.
I pass through Dyersville, where the movie "Field of Dreams" was filmed. Then it's past Manchester, Waterloo, and over to Fort Dodge in central Iowa. The mild temperatures, blue sky filled with fluffy white, clouds, and classic Iowa countryside make for pleasant driving.
At Fort Dodge, I turn north, continuing through typical Iowa countryside and well-manicured small towns. Esterville is an especially neat looking town with its well-kept, prosperous looking main street and courthouse square.
I soon reach the Minnesota border. Although known as the land of 10,000 lakes and sky blue waters, it has its share of high-powered corn and soybean land, especially in that corner of southwest Minnesota. I reach I-90 and travel the remaining short distance west to Worthington and Tom's mother's house.
Tom's mother is a couple months short of her 99th birthday, keeps and manages her own house, and is mentally sharp. The next morning, she insists on feeding us breakfast before sending us on our way. Remarkable.
It is Memorial Day, but as we take roads less traveled, we're not worried about holiday traffic. We stay on I-90 for awhile, across the South Dakota line, past Sioux Falls and over to Mitchell, home of the Corn Palace, and the George McGovern Museum. But instead of visiting there, we turn south, across more flat crop and pastureland. The temperature is still in the pleasant 70s with nice sunshine. There is a lot of standing water in the fields, but the pasture land is rich and green.
We turn west near the South Dakota-Nebraska line, cross the Missouri River, and turn south into Nebraska. Then its west on Nebraska Route 12, billed as the "Outlaw Trail." This is clearly beef country, the tall grass reaching the bellies of grazing cattle.
Upon reaching Valentine, county seat of Cherry County, billed as the "Heart of Beef Country," we find a restaurant that's open on this holiday and stop for a bite. I ask the middle-aged waitress if she can guarantee that the beef in this sandwich is genuine Nebraska beef. She replies that she cannot and quickly tends to other customers.
When she returns, I ask her if she is a Cornhusker fan. She replies that she isn't sure.
I'm shocked; she is the lone Nebraskan I ever met who doesn't live and die by the Cornhuskers. I need to pursue this with her, but she quickly walks away. It's clear she is not interested in my usual inquiries about local culture.
As we head out to the parking lot, we note a couple of guys standing by a truck marked "Storm Tracker." There are some looming clouds in the skies to the west. These lads are probably hoping for a tornado. We can do without that.
We head west on U.S. 20 across the northern edge of Nebraska's scenic Sandhills. The rain starts but it's sporadic. It looks as if we're going to get around the storm. At Merriman, we turn south across the heart of the sand hills. These ecologically fragile hills are always spectacular, but with the recent rains, they are a rich green dotted with herds of contentedly grazing beef cattle, mostly Black Angus.
As we get further south on this lightly traveled road - only an occasional pickup truck - the sky opens up. The temperature drops to the mid 50s and the strong west wind picks up, rocking my pickup. All of the cattle in every herd we see are lined up in military fashion, facing east, away from the strong west wind and driven, chilly rain.
Nevertheless, it's a gorgeous, scenic drive. We soon reach Ogallala on the Platte River. Ironic that we reach Ogallala on Memorial Day when they have paid respects to vets. I recall a day over a half century ago, traveling on U.S. 30, when they paid a few Marines absolutely no respect.
After boot camp, infantry training, and Radio Operators School, nine months in the Corps, we had finally received our first hard-earned stripe. My traveling companions were slated for the 1st Marine Division, and I for the 2nd Marine Air Wing. But first, we needed some respite from the iron discipline of the Corps.
Going through Ogallala, I committed a minor traffic offense. The cop could have let me off with a warning. Instead, he led me downtown to some office. The presiding official, whatever the hell he was, gave me a stern lecture. Then the officious jerk fined me 14 bucks, a substantial portion of a PFC's monthly pay.
Okay, no big deal, and it didn't negatively affect my life. And I'm sure that Ogallala appropriately honored vets this Memorial Day. But given that historical lack of respect for a few teenaged Marines, I remember Ogallala in a different way and can't resist the opportunity to poke some fun at it.
- John Waelti of Monroe can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net. His column appears Fridays in The Monroe Times.
