Never Saying Never

When the U-haul pulled out of my driveway in Nevada, Iowa eight years ago, I swore that I would never go to graduate school again or live in Iowa again. I had completed my first Master of Arts degree at Iowa State University, and as the gravel popped and crackled under our tires, I could not even muster a tear.

It wasn’t that I disliked Iowa. I definitely loved the people. But, my two year stay in Nevada had felt a little isolated and lonely. I had lived alone with my little guinea pig Herbie, and living in Iowa had felt a bit like wearing a tight, itchy wool sweater that was a size too small.

Never again.

I have always been pretty free with the use of “never.” I like to tempt Fate. I am not superstitious. I like to cross under ladders, open umbrellas in the house, and bend down to pet those menacing black cats that wander across my path—even if they do scratch sometimes.

Now, I find myself writing this with another Master’s degree and living in Iowa again. I moved here with a friend because I was in love—as good of a reason as any, but you know in your gut when things aren’t “right.” After a year of living here on my own again, though, I cannot still say that moving here was a “mistake.” I have met some of the most amazing people of my life here in Iowa. I would not trade one second of the time I’ve spent with each person I’ve met while living here, even if it would mean forgoing the hardships and restless, sleepless nights.

Dare I say, now faced with the reality of leaving, I almost never want to leave? Looking around my apartment, things are already beginning to look empty, barren. Bookshelves have been cleared. Boxes are beginning to stack. I never thought I would find myself so sad to leave.

I will carry my experiences in my heart when I move, pack away the memories, and come back for frequent visits. Something about Iowa seems to get into a person’s bloodstream. Maybe it’s the easy smiles that strangers offer. Maybe it’s the inherent goodness and integrity so many Iowans exude in their handshakes and warm words. It’s a little hard not to feel “at home” here.

My moving is motivated by many reasons—one of the biggest is location. As the only surviving child, I feel the burden of the distance from my family. I will be much closer in Indiana. Close enough to drive there in a weekend; far enough to know they will never visit on their own. Ideal.

I never thought leaving Iowa would be this hard. More than just a few tears have already been shed, but then, I’ve always been a crier. Just ask those who know me best.

It is the time to go, though, or else the job opportunity would not have come so easily.

In the end, I guess I’ve learned my lesson. I always do learn best from my mistakes. I have learned to never say never again and to look forward to the next time I find myself living in Iowa.

In No Apparent Distress

You hustle through the grocery store. People around you are inspecting apples, eyeing which tomato will be the best buy. You hear the conversations of two older farmers who have clearly known each other for years. They stand side by side, arms folded, toothpicks wet and splintery.

A young man and a young woman flirt with each other behind the meat counter—each wearing a white uniform, apron, and paper hat. They do their best to care which steak an elderly woman is pointing to. When the girl bends over to get into the case, the boy walks past and his smile widens. You cannot see what happened, but the twinkle in the girl’s eye and small blush speak volumes.

You scurry down the soup aisle, unsure what you are hungry for, trying to sort through your craving to know what will fulfill you best. A young woman pushes a cart full of two sticky-faced children while another little girl straggles behind. They are all snacking on graham crackers that the woman has not paid for yet, and given the weary look in her eyes, she will likely forget. You offer her a small smile, but returning the smile proves to be too much effort.

You wander down the cereal aisle—Cheerios, Corn Pops, oatmeal—nothing entices you. Your quick walk slows to a stroll.

An elderly couple stop and study the labels on the various bran cereals.

“Five dollars for cereal?” the man says, scratches his forehead.

“I’ll just make some Johnny Cake. We can eat that,” the woman replies.

She puts the cereal box back on the shelf and takes the man’s hand. They continue puttering down the aisle in silence.

You begin to think you can live with being hungry. After a while, you get used to the feeling. You have eaten food you weren’t craving before, and while it fills you up, it doesn’t quite have that mouth-watering taste that satisfies.

You pass a teenage boy on your way to the cookie aisle. He grabs a bag of chocolate chip.

You stand in front of the Double Stuff Oreos. Have you found what you were looking for? You don’t normally eat Double Stuff Oreos. In fact, you had told yourself you would probably never eat them again—preferring the taste of Ginger Snaps.

You don’t want to pick up that blue and pink bag too fast. You picture yourself back in your apartment, slowly peeling open the wrapper, hearing the cookies shuffle against the plastic container. You don’t want to rush the experience. Each cookie has to be fully tasted and savored.

Should you buy them? Once you buy them, you will want to eat them all in one setting, but you know you shouldn’t, that you can’t.

Your fingers hover above the bag. They itch. Desire pulses through each tip.

Will you walk on? In your mind, you have already eaten each cookie, the gooey, gritty filling.

A young woman with long blonde hair, a stunning caramel tan, the body every woman would love to have rushes by you. You are still standing in the cloud of her sweet lilac perfume before you realize she grabbed a bag of Double Stuff Oreos. They must not be for her. She wears tight jeans and a halter top—no room for the luxury of cookies. She makes you feel frumpy, too pale, not fashionable enough—who are you to be buying these Oreos?

You recoil your hand. Sigh. You decide to go home, still hungry.

And, when you get home, you do a hundred sit-ups, ride your exercise bike. After a good sweat and long bath, you sit on the couch and smile.

You will buy those Oreos tomorrow.