An Iowa Homecoming

(It was time my city-raised children recognized their roots.)
By Debra Holliday


(This article appeared in both the "Denver Post" and the "Reader's Digest.")
Reprinted with permission from Debra Holliday.)

        Not long ago I went home for a few days-home being Winterset, a very
small town in the middle of Iowa.  I haven't lived there for 20 years, yet
whenever I go back, I'm home.
        My Denver-born teenagers take great delight in the idiosyncrasies of
small-town life, beginning with my phone call to reserve the motel room.  The
motel clerk asked for a local number in case there were problems with the
reservation.  I gave her my stepmother's number. "Oh," she said, "which one
of the girls are you?"
        Taken aback, I adjusted to the familiarity. "I'm Debbie, Dean
Leslie's oldest daughter I don't know if you knew him."
        "My goodness, yes.  All our kids had your dad as a music teacher in
school.  And they loved him."
        "Well, thanks," I said.  "And what is your name?"
        "I'm Mrs. Matlage.  My daughter-in-law is Sheri Blaschke, who lived
next door to you."
        "Oh, yes," I replied. "How is Sheri?"
        By this time, my children were rolling their eyes and muttering, "I
can't believe this.  Is there anyone in that town she doesn't know?"
        When we arrive, my kids stared in disbelief as we walked into a lobby
filled with glass cases of antique plates and pitchers (unlocked, I might
add).  Not a soul was in sight.  I rang the bell.  We waited quite a while.
My impatient city kids were accustomed to waiting in line, but waiting when
no one else was around was something new.  Eventually the proprietor came in
from her house out back. "Had to get the cookies out of the oven," she said
with a wink.  The kids exchanged smirks.
        We went to a local restaurant for a hamburger.  The waitress set down
our water glasses and stared for a few seconds.  "Debbie," she asked
cautiously, "is that you?"
        "Yes and you're.?" I knew she looked familiar.
        "I'm Darcy's mother," she replied. And we were off.  My kids
scrunched down in their seats.
        She took our order and soon another waitress and the cook came out to
greet us. "Did you know," one asked the kids, "I used to baby sit your mother
when she was little girl?"  The kids may have been embarrassed, but they had
to admit they had never received that kind of service in Denver.
        Then came The Tour.  My husband Randy and I drove past our childhood
homes, our high school, the church, and where we were married.  We pointed
out my piano teacher's house, the woods where Randy had gone pheasant
hunting, and Mayme's Hill where every child in town had gone sledding.
        On a walk around the town square, we ran into my third-grade teacher,
my husband's second cousin, and one of my high school friends-all of whom
greeted us warmly and stopped to chat.  It was as if our 20-year absence was
 only an intermission and now we were really home again.
        My family and I were ready to return to Denver when I found myself
low on cash and stopped at a local bank.  There was only one teller in sight,
a young woman I didn't recognize.
        "We don't normally cash out-of-town checks," she said, "but I'll ask
my supervisor."
        She turned away and shouted toward an office down the hall. "There's
a woman here from Denver who wants to cash a check for $100."
        "No out-of-town check," came the reply.
        "Too bad, Mom," my daughter said. "I guess even you can't bend the
rules."
        "Tell your supervisor I'm Dean Leslie's oldest daughter," I said.
She relayed the message.
        "Oh, then no problem," answered the voice.  We were almost out the
door when I heard the voice add, "And tell Debbie to say hello to Randy and
have a safe trip home."
        Now tell me, who couldn't love a town like that?