I'm an English Teacher--whadya expect?

Red Cloud, Nebraska. Pop. 1313. The intersection of routes 281 and 136. This small town, which looks as if it has its economic difficulties (empty store fronts, not very many young people), is utterly tenacious in its connection to Willa Cather. As it should be. Much like Hannibal Missouri does with Mark Twain, Red Cloud depends heavily on the Cather name to lure the tourists down to Nebraska on the 281, about 40 miles south of the I-80. I'm not sure how successful they really are at doing this. When asked where I was from--an opening salutation I got six times in two days--I replied, Los Angeles. A nod. Then, "Are you here for the family reunion?" "No." "What brings you here then?" "I'm here for the Willa Cather tour." "Oh. Any particular reason why?" "Well, I'm an English teacher and ..." A long, drawn out "oh." A nod of understanding and then silence. Nothin' like stating my occupation to kill a conversation. And this, in the only restaurant in town opened on a Sunday night, except for the Subway around the corner. The woman who owns this cafe is renovating the hotel that comes with it. As I was the only customer in the establishment, she graciously showed me parts of the first floor that had been completed. Nice rooms, with bathrooms. I'd stay there should I ever be in Red Cloud again. Good chicken stir fry. Leave a souvenir hat when you go--she'll hang it on the wall.

So yes, I'm an English teacher. With a knowledgable guide named Priscilla who moved and talked slowly but drove her maroon minivan like a speed demon, I went from Red Cloud Opera House to Cather's childhood house to the town depot and a few other spots. Any Cather-related locations out in the countryside, I was on my own. After being assured there were gravel roads out in the country, I thought I'd give it a try in my modest Honda Civic. Did I mention it had been raining off and on in Red Cloud for the last five days? 4 inches. Even that undermines the integrity of the best gravel roads. And yes, well beyond town, beyond a farmhouse with horses, beyond two huge cornfields and in the midst of yet another, I got stuck. In the mud. On this "minimum maintenance road." Did I see the mud before I got stuck? Of course not. I saw a gravel road. A few moments of not panicking when it began to rain again and having visions of flash floods, tornadoes and other midwestern weather horrors, I focused on first gear and my spinning tires. The moment I was freed from the mire, I managed a 10-point turn in the narrow country lane and high-tailed it back for the main road at 5 mph. I settled for Priscilla's guided tour of the houses in town. This is not to say I did not get a good look at Cather's prairie--I did, a little south of town, near the Kansas border. And I didn't have to off-road to get there. Truly beautiful, and had it been less wet, I would have gone walking through it. I love the mountains, the vertical expanse, the vastness of geologic time evident before me. The prairie is the horizontal version. That expanse, that enormity of earth's time spread out in softly rolling hills guarded by the equally vast sky above it. No camera--at least in my hands--can do it justice.

My self-guided countryside prairie tour ala O Pioneers and My Antonia a failure, I headed south on the 281, toward lighter skies and Kansas. I had an important mission. Two actually. Both not terribly far away from Red Cloud.

AND

(two more sites I can check off on my list of things to see before I...well...you know...)

One other piece of information about Red Cloud: a siren goes off at seven in the morning and about four in the afternoon. The first morning I heard it, I thought it was a tornado warning, and visions of midwestern weather horrors started swirling before me: flash floods, dust storms, whole towns being wiped away, people left stranded with only their bathtubs and a picture of Nana, bad Helen Hunt films, the Wicked Witch of the East... But nothing happened as I stood there paused with my hair dryer suspended above my head. My B&B hostess, Dee, did not come running upstairs telling us to scoot for the cellar--or wherever it is people go to hide out from a tornado. Silly me. The following morning, I asked Dee, what's with the siren? She laughed a little and said it was part of the farming tradition. The morning one to wake people up, the afternoon one to tell folks the day is done, we'll meet up at Cutter's at six for some Bud (ok, so I added that last part). Isn't it the same siren as the tornado warning, I asked? Yes, she laughed again, and they test it every Saturday morning even though the whole town knows it works--as each day testifies. I should also mention the two friendly cats who followed me around in the town bookstore, needing some behind-the-ear scratching. You can trust a town that has friendly animals in the bookstore (this one also had a big black, fluffy poodle).

It may not seem like it, but the English teacher in me was perfectly satisfied by my visit--I have plenty of pictures and extra little tidbits to share with students when we get to My Antonia. I stayed at a B&B, the house of which was owned by the Cather family, and I stayed in the room Willa used when she came back to Red Cloud to visit. How much more could I possibly soak up without getting all muddy? So on Tuesday morning, in the rain (natch), with books and posters verifying my pilgrimage, plus a touch of food poisoning/stomach flu which would hit with a vengeance later that morning, I headed back north on the 281 to the I-80 east, back to Lincoln. My Willa Cather sojourn over? Not entirely...