In 1962 Jack and Francina Hartig, my grandparents, left
their life in Barnum, Iowa to move to California. As the
story goes, it was a bitter winter when Jack and Fran
auctioned off their belongings and loaded three kids in the
car for a nonstop drive to The Golden State. Their oldest
child was twelve years-old and grew up to be my mother,
Nancy.
My move to Iowa, on the other hand, involved neither an
auction nor a cold winter. In the sweltering June heat of
California, I hauled a loaded pallet jack back and forth as
my husband fork-lifted all our belongings into a semi-truck.
What we had in common with my grandparents was leaving
everyone we knew and loved, along with some internal drive
for a different life.
My grandfather passed away in California twenty years
ago, followed five years later by my grandmother. The family
I have remaining in Iowa is mostly in Manson, including my
great-aunt Sally who is my grandmother’s only sister. On
visits to Manson I’m always told how everyone cried and
cried when Jack and Fran left for such a far away place. I
know there are a few in California who are feeling this way
about my move.
Until this past weekend, I had only found time to visit
Aunt Sally once since my move. I was excited to see her on
Sunday because she invited me to an 80th birthday party for
one of my Grandma Fran’s best friends from the Barnum days.
We headed to the Clare Community Center for birthday cake
and coffee. Aunt Sally showed my husband and me around like
celebrities, explaining I was Francina’s granddaughter who
had just moved from California to Odebolt. Reactions were
mixed – I looked like my grandmother, it was something in my
eyes, I had my mother’s round face, I must have “a little
Hartig” in me. One reaction was common: that it was
wonderful how we had “come back.”
How could I have come back to a place I never left? I
guess it’s flattering that people think I’ve made the family
circle complete after 47 years. That fits well with the
answer I’ve been giving when Odebolt residents ask me where
I am from. “I’m from right here,” I say. I haven’t left home
because I’ve come home.
Iowa Sky
Originally published October 1, 2009 in
The
Chronicle
As you probably know by now, I moved to Iowa from
southern California in July of this year. With that move
nearly every aspect of my life has changed in some way. Some
of those changes were anticipated and some could only be
experienced upon arriving here. At least both states would
share the same sky…right?
My mother and her family moved from Iowa to California in
1962, and I have heard her say she always loved the clouds
in Iowa. I had never thought much of that sentiment, even
the few times I visited before my move. Within days of
arriving in Iowa I was driving east one morning from Odebolt
to Sac City and finally understood what my mom meant.
Reflecting back to the month of June, my last month in my
home state, I remember experiencing many intense emotions –
from complete joy and anticipation to guilt and sadness. I
love music and used it as my mechanism of coping,
identifying with songs that I had not appreciated before.
One of those was John Denver’s “Wild Montana Skies,” (which
I am embarrassed to admit). The line I loved hearing
repeatedly was, “There was something in the city that he
said he couldn’t breathe; There was something in the country
that he said he couldn’t leave.”
On that drive to Sac City with the spectacular Iowa
clouds ahead of me, I thought of the “Wild Montana Skies”
and fell in love with the wild Iowa skies. My husband
mentioned how amazing it was that we could see “forever.” In
California to see the sky one has to look up. Here in Iowa I
realized that the sky was all around without skyscrapers and
smog to interfere. I know it sounds silly, but to me it was
completely new: I could see the sky all the way around me,
in every direction, down to the horizon.
Since then I have experienced some of the nuances of
clouds in Iowa. I love the giant, classic “fluffy” clouds
that are everywhere. I have seen the dark and massive
thunderstorm clouds approaching quickly from the west. I was
fascinated with early mornings when a thin, wispy layer of
fog hung just over the soy bean fields. Most recently I came
home in the afternoon and saw what looked like individual
rays of sun breaking through light rain clouds in an
illuminated spectrum straight down to the gravel road.
I think I understand why my mom misses the clouds. I
think I know a little of what John Denver experienced.
Coming from the California desert and coastline to
northwestern Iowa, I feel like I am seeing clouds for the
first time in my life. Maybe you’re thinking, “Did she just
write an entire column about the clouds?” I did; so go
outside and have a fresh look for yourself.
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