The jet that carried us from Boston’s Logan Airport to Chicago’s O’Hare airport on June 30, 2021, was only slightly bigger than the three-person across jet that delivered us to Cedar Rapid’s Eastern Iowa airport. Both were full. At the gate in Chicago, the passengers looked familiar. Their Iowa Hawkeye shirts and farm baseball caps pointed to the direction we were going: in one half-hour-or-less skipping flight, we’d all be in Iowa. The jaunty flight wasn’t as bad as some I’ve taken, and once we crossed the Mississippi River, the green squares on the giant Iowa quilt took my mind off the lurching of the jet. I grew up on a gravel road in northeast Iowa where potholes and washboard ribs were commonplace, so I tried to convince myself that these air bumps that rattled me were just the equivalent of a gravel road—and a necessary passage to maneuver. And I worked to convince myself that after landing and getting to the farm, the anxiety of the journey would be obliterated from my memory. Much like childbirth, so they say, or chemo.
As we danced closer to the airport, I noticed a block of land that wasn’t green with beans or corn but filled to the edges with roofs of houses. This block of farmland, of rich black soil, would no longer grow acres of corn or beans which would feed people or animals. Somehow its inherent value was lost in the movement from a farmer to a developer. I doubt if this thought would’ve crossed my mind if it was within a suburban crawl, a development adjacent to another one or to a city. But this square was surrounded by stalwart fields; it stood out like a blemish that would never heal now that it was infected. The soil was no longer defined as such but rather as plots and yards with perhaps a fruitful garden here and there.
Hovering a couple of miles from the runway, I thought about how I would or should respond to landing in Iowa. I’m not one to kiss the ground after a long absence. I felt no tears or intense emotion. The word that settled over me was “familiar.” Thank God, everything I could see was familiar. Even the sight of that housed quilt block was surrounded by the green blocks—the green fields were familiar.
Aside from one or two hugs with my Iowa niece that were tearful, most other experiences on the trip followed in the pattern of familiar. The smell when I opened the car door and stepped out at Mom and Dad’s, as well as the smell when I went into the house: familiar. I’ve never been so thankful for familiar. I felt it as an emotion rather than an adjective. It felt secure even when I knew change had taken place.
I walked behind the barn, and as I scooted around the perimeter buildings next to the cornfield, the cornstalks shot over my head, probably seven feet tall. The rows curved in a new way to the left behind the hay shed, and I got caught up in the soft gentleness of that curve where a perpendicular angle had always been before. It made me stop and turn to work out why this was different: the old chicken coop was gone that had sat out behind the hayshed since I was a kid. And with it gone, there was room for probably eight more rows of corn to tuck in closer to the back of the hay shed. I’ve taken many photos of the chicken coop over the years, and I knew it was in bad shape. Its disappearance didn’t shock me; instead, the familiarity of cornstalks smoothed over the changed landscape. And that new gentle curve was most impressive.
Throughout the two weeks we were in Iowa, the familiar was a balm to the changed. There’s an old shed at my brother’s that will probably be taken down soon as it’s falling apart. Like the chicken coop, it has clung to its supports for many years, but its time is getting short. We were at my brother’s several evenings to see him and his family and to also pet kittens. The kittens had been wild when we arrived, but with the kids’ (and Grandpa’s!) persistent, patient presence, they were tame when we left. Each time we were there, I caught the sunset from the lane. The barnyard buildings, gates, and fences filled the foreground. I know that when this old shed is gone, there will be a gap in the scene, yet the familiar sunset will still hold tight.
There’s an old Ford truck my dad and brother used to use on the farm years ago that now sits dormant, backed into a covered tin structure that’s attached to the corn crib. Its usefulness has expired. Dad told me no one wants that kind of vehicle anymore. To him, it’s a bit of an eye sore in that it hasn’t been easy to get rid of. To me, it’s a piece of art when Mom’s hollyhocks bloom at its corner. For a few years, this scene grows in the summertime, and the juxtaposition between the front of the Ford and these resilient pink hollyhocks pulls me into whimsical delight. On this trip, I ventured out at different times of day and from any angle I could find, I recorded the scene of these two living side by side. If Dad eventually sells the truck, the hollyhocks will be that familiar touchstone that point to more of a small change than a loss.