The Midwest

Today I visited Pocahontas, currently located in Arkansas. Didn't you know? Pocahontas is a town of 1,248 people. It says so on the small green sign standing proudly beside the only paved road in town. I drove into town in my rental car, rolling my eyes and sighing about what a ridiculous culture I would soon be dealing with. I often make fun of the Midwest because it is so easy to do so, but honestly, it is even easier to be jealous of it.

Being an avid “find the best deal online first” consumer, I was discouraged to drive past the only hotels in town, which were still advertising color T.V. and HBO. I considered that this probably wasn't a feature I was going to find under the “accommodations” section of Hotels.com. They probably don't pricematch, either. I imagine that the term “mom and pop” shop has never been used here because, well, what else is there? Oh yeah, Wal-mart, but only in the big city.

Shortly thereafter I started to drive through the neighborhoods. Naturally, I fake wondering about their property prices, while smiling coolly about the fact that I could probably afford any mortgage in town. Heck, I could probably afford two, especially if the houses are like those. It was just then that both sides of the road cleared out into soft cut grass and caught my attention. And then I saw it. A house. No, a mansion. Or, maybe even an estate! No, MY house, and an instant daydream. I can see it all now, Mr. Toad. I pull up to the four white pillars in whatever motorcar I drive. I invite my friends over to go fishing on my boat around my lake surrounded by my land behind my stainless steel brick barbecue. I write books to make extra cash, but I mostly live off of my earlier investments, whatever those may be, but I'm sure they're not important. You know, I really wouldn't mind living here. The red brick buildings surrounded by naturally healthy green trees reminded me of those more traditional and well-earned Christmases. I guess some quirks are really quite perks.

But there are some more serious quirks too. Every town I passed through on the way to Pocahontas (including Bald Knob, Newport, and Alicia with a population of 145 posted) had no shortage of churches. Small steeples, square buildings, and simple landscapes featuring Christian quotes on billboards seem to grow better in this climate than anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, so do cemeteries. In every town I went through, right next to the main (or only) road in town, one could see the town cemetery. But these cemeteries were noticeably different from ones I normally see because each headstone seemed to have a twin right next to it. In other words, rarely did I see a headstone by itself. Husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, kin and kin, cuddled and cozy. Pretty cute, pretty cute.

It is also clear to me that the Southern Baptists have clearly won the “We Have The Most Money” award. The cute Methodist one-story, the Pentecostal former dentists' office, and the non-denominational single-family home can all fit easily under the noon-time shadow of the local Southern Baptist church. Of course, the buildings also serve as the church campus, college, community center, and anything else beginning with the letter “C,” but we know what they really mean. Our congregation tithes, your doesn't, we've won. I kid, I kid.

So, while I don't understand how the roots of this culture could develop a Clinton, I wouldn't mind witnessing the goings-on here firsthand. I'd love to find a hot Midwestern wife, even if she had to be Southern Baptist. And despite my subtle appreciation of the styrofoam-packed poultry at Costco, I would absolutely love to know a local butcher.

My Room

Let me tell you a little bit about my room. My room is not a place anyone wants to show to guests who visit the house. My laundry basket was overrun a long time ago. There are at least six loads of laundry pouring out of my closet door by now. There is a trail of cleared carpeting leading from my door to my desk chair to my bed. Without this trail one would have good reason to doubt that the room has any carpeting at all. Behind the laundry sits two dusty guitars that still get played, just not polished. I do not wish to know what horticulture experiment is growing between the many sets of socks, jeans, t-shirts, and the carpet below. The closet door remains jammed open due to this mountain of decomposing cotton and polyester. That one corner of the room alone could probably make the most experienced maid blush and faint.

On my bed are two blankets which, as far as I can remember, have never covered all four corners of the bed at the same time. They lay loose next to two pillows with unmatched pillow cases. The sheets get washed about once every other month because, like some children, I enjoy that “broken in” smell over the fresh “ocean breeze” scent of laundry detergent. I prefer settling into my slightly unkempt sheets at the end of my day like I would a beer over wine.

Books are littered around my room like confetti after a wedding. Yesterday I found a book between my mattress and the box spring, though I never meant to hide it. Journals that I have kept since 1992 make up one-quarter of the remaining books on the shelf above my desk. I have a cook book sitting on top of my last oil change receipt next to the speaker for my computer that hasn’t been moved since I set it there last year. Coke cans, coffee cups, and plastic spoons lay two feet away from the inside of my trash can. And, as unlikely as it sounds, my trash can is filled with nothing but a trash bag.

Sometimes I feel like a rat living in a hole with bottle caps and old food lying around, but this is a rare feeling. I am rarely ashamed of my room because, believe it or not, this is my sanctuary. The light blue ceiling that I painted with my own two hands reminds me of a clear upper sky. The walls etched with white faux splatter on a blue-grey surface give me the impression that I am high and safe. On the walls hang gifts of artwork received from friends in remote countries, knives brought back from the highest mountain range in India, and a grey sweater signed by every student I taught in my first classroom.

Even though my mother would be terribly disgusted, as would any potential girlfriend, I get a strange sense of relief that my room is repulsive to others. Without me saying a word, it lets people know that they’re not welcome unless they receive a special invitation. I can retreat to my room on any day, at any time, under any circumstance and trust that I will be unbothered.

The exposed trail of carpet snaking along the floor is my trail. I have traveled it many times. It is the easiest path for me to walk and the most difficult for others. Surrounded by empty gum wrappers and a web of wires tickling my feet I have remembered by best moments in life. And, I am recalling one of them to you right now on this dusty, worn keyboard.

So, if I happen to meet a special girl one day who actually sees my room from the hallway and predicts a future with a messy houseguest, she may be right. But until she sees the room from the inside, walks my trail, pushes the shoes out of the way and closes the door, she won’t have a clue about me. It is not clean, but it is safe. Everything is provided, just not on shelves or in drawers. This mess is my nest. I have no problem cleaning my room, but I do not wish to substitute a clean room for a home. I do not refuse to please someone by cleaning it, just not everyone. My room is a testimony of my sincerity. And I hope the few who know me can gauge my character by my personal lifestyle, not by my personal hygiene.