ROOTS
Ariele M. Huff Published in July 2003
This is an example of love of a parent.
I
have always wanted to see Iowa. Not
because of the cornfields…or the song about it from The Music Man. Webster City,
Iowa was my father’s hometown until he was twelve years old.
He
wasn’t much of a storyteller, my dad. My
sister and I were never regaled with how it was when he was a kid – not in Iowa
or in Washington. We didn’t hear tales
of adventurous doings, big celebrations, or even harsh punishments. A few facts filtered to us through our aunt
and confessions made to my mother in private.
His mother, my paternal grandmother, died when Dad was in high school,
and his father was the same kind of tight-lipped guy.
We
had heard some of the family lore: a caravan of Sweazeys had crossed the
country all at once, hoping for a better economy and less “dustbowl”
conditions. As they snaked over a
mountain pass, a truck had careened into the lead car, killing the parents and
a baby, but leaving the backseat daughters injured for life. This was the kind of story we did hear about
my father’s life.
When
my husband and I decided to do a “Midwest trip,” Iowa was immediately on my
mind. I wanted to touch and see the
things my father had known during his early years. I wanted to connect with swimming holes,
dusty old school corridors, a malt shop, where the theater had stood, the house
he’d lived in.
I
also wanted to track back on the high school annual passed down from his
mother…her life and friends.
When
we got to Iowa, the scenery changed.
Even though our journey had taken us through Wyoming, Montana, Idaho,
Washington, South Dakota, and Minnesota, I hadn’t been prepared for how
abruptly the landscape changes at the state line. Suddenly, those green fields – those
ubiquitous cornfields – were around us.
It
was eerily like being transported into that place I’d thought of as being my
father’s native soil. He hadn’t
described it, but I’d seen pictures and read stories and seen movies.
Eagerly,
we sought out spots mentioned in letters and the annual, places that had become
part of general family lore. We were
prepared for change and we were prepared for utter failure…it had been sixty
years, after all.
What
we hadn’t really been prepared for was the level of success we had. One old stone building after another yielded
up nooks and crannies, class photos, family names engraved, places still
recognizable from scrapbook photos.
There were relatives left behind and descendants of friends who remembered
my father’s dark curly hair and his older sister’s charming smile. There were farms my grandfather had helped to
build and a store where the family had shopped.
Almost
as meaningful were the era things preserved or left unchanged, at least: the restaurant with 1920’s crockery in a glass
case, the 30’s style dresses decorating a store window, the 35’ jalopy rescued
from a field and on display. Probably,
my father and his family hadn’t used any of these…or seen them, but I found
myself gazing at them sentimentally as though they had.
Then,
I realized I wasn’t only looking at these things for myself. My dad hadn’t been back to Iowa since the
move out. Somehow, I was looking at them
for him too. And then I remembered the
poem I’d written right after he died.
HAPPY RETURNS
My father died with Iowa
in his eyes.
The whole family came West
by station wagon
to escape the dust bowl.
Webster City was home,
But Seattle was food on the
table.
He never spoke of Iowa:
At 12, wherever you are is
home.
But he still twanged on
“sirrup” instead of “syrup,”
And he still remembered hard
times.
Fifty-six years later,
He peacefully retraced his
steps
and died
with Iowa
in his eyes.
My father and mother on a date.
