Iowa Nice

July 23rd, 2021: Roseman Bridge—the most famous of Madison County, Iowa’s covered bridges bakes in the sun on a hot summer’s day I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

I had three must-dos for my first drive through Iowa. Field of Dreams, John Wayne's Birthplace Museum, and the Bridges of Madison County. Funny how each of these attractions has a direct link to Hollywood. Who'd a thunk it? In little old Iowa.

Iowa might be one of the first states that comes to mind when you think of nothingness or when you hear the term that I hate to even type, "flyover state." There is no such thing as a flyover state, and as an avid proponent of all 50, I find the term grossly unfair, and I take offense to it. When I hear it, I immediately snap into defend-that-state mode. So, naturally, I'm proud to give Iowa the recognition it deserves by sharing the awesome experiences I had there.

Iowa is miles of rolling road and rows of corn stalks that tower over me like tasty Midwestern skyscrapers. In the summertime, Iowa's paved streets could fry eggs, and their gravel roads cloud the scenery when ambitious Iowan cars speed off into the sun. Iowa is home to the cutest, sleepy small towns and lovely people who perpetuate the notion of Iowa nice. 

On July 23, 2021, I left Des Moines and headed southwest for the Covered Bridges Scenic Byway. I filled my rental beast with $3.04 gas at the Kum & Go, then made my way into Winterset, the Covered Bridge Capital of Iowa. Naturally, Roseman Bridge was first on my list. If you've seen the movie or read the book, The Bridges of Madison County, you know why that bridge is the most special. And if you haven't, I'll just say that it's a romantic spot where a love story for the ages unfolded.

It was hotter than hot in south central Iowa that day. Far too hot for a penguin like me to be out shuffling around, but I pressed on, as Roseman Bridge has been on my bucket list since I was in high school. I parked at the end of Roseman Bridge Road and turned the car off. I heard gravel flying around under the nose of the car and all sorts of winged insects flying around outside. They made sounds that signify summer heat, or atmospheric hell, as it's referred to deep in my soul. My car said 98°, my phone said 93°, my body said 133°.

But sitting there dead ahead of me was that beautiful red bridge looking just how it's probably looked for the past 138 years. I wonder how many times it's been repainted and repaired since then.

I needlessly locked my car and wandered down the grassy hill to get a better look. I noticed a gift shop with a long porch to my right. A few wooden chairs were rocking a few peaceful people on the deck. A couple of bicycles were resting on the hill in front of the bridge, no doubt driven by brave people with far greater heat tolerance than me.

And then I was at the base of the bridge, standing where Meryl Streep, Clint Eastwood, Francesca Johnson, and Robert Kincaid once stood. I walked the planks of the creaky bridge. I walked down to the river beneath the creaky bridge—photographed it from every angle while combatting the sun. Eventually, I dragged my sweaty self up to the gift shop in search of souvenir pins and air conditioning. AC felt a bit ambitious for a place this rural, but a girl could hope, right?

Opening the thinly framed door to this rustic cabin nestled between a river and a densely wooded area was like opening the door to a piece of the past preserved in antiquity. The floors inside creaked just like the bridge, and the scent that filled the air was oaky and earthy with a hint of country sweetness. Wall-to-wall wooden shelves were filled with memorabilia of all kinds. A quick glance around the room was all you needed to know you were in the presence of rich history and timeless tales passed down through the generations.

This was a simpler place and time. 2021 and its modern conveniences and conundrums felt like elements of the distant future there in the quiet, country gift shop in quaint Madison County.

As always, when wandering through a gift shop, I found much more than the simple souvenir pin I'd set out for. I found hats and magnets and mustards made right there in town. I found postcards and pins and mugs, and naturally, I wanted all of them. A hat for mom, a hat for me, mustards for my stepdad, and the rest for me! And hey, shop local, right?

So with arms full of Iowa treasures, I made my way to the checkout counter where Pam waited to greet me with a smile, "Well, hello there, my dear. Found some good things to take home with you?" "Yes, I sure did. I wish I could take this whole place home with me." We giggled together. Pam asked me where home was, and with pride, I told her, "New York City, or as my friend from New Hampshire calls it, the big *rotten* apple." She laughed, oohed, and aahed.

As she rang up my million souvenirs, we chatted about the bridges, Iowa's natural beauty, and the differences between our homes. We talked about how Iowa isn't just corn and grass like everybody who's never been there thinks. I told her how it's my personal mission to show the world that there's so much more to places like Iowa and Idaho than assumptions would allow. "Yes, yes, yes! We need more of you in this world!" There was a perceptible fondness growing between us.

We talked about my blog and the kind of traveling I do—the bridges, of course. Eventually, I noticed that Pam was struggling to process my purchase with the card I had handed her. I also couldn't help but notice the kind of machine she was using for the transaction—it certainly wasn't as old as the bridges built between 1870-1880, but it was no modern device either.

Pam went through the trouble of executing all kinds of troubleshooting tactics. She unplugged the machine. She made a call, presumably to the owner of the store. She did something with a tangled web of wires that made me a little nervous—all so I could have my mountain of Iowa-made keepsakes. I didn't have a speck of cell service, and it seemed like her computer may have been offline.

I decided to relieve Pam of the technical difficulties that were starting to make her sweat.

Me: "I'll just pay cash!"

Pam: "Oh, no, no, I'll get it working—I've just gotta—"

Me: "No, no, I insist—you're working so hard. Please don't worry about it at all! I've got cash—I'll pay cash."

Pam was disappointed but also defeated by 20th-century machinery, so she apologetically complied. During our cash vs. card debate, three women who instantly struck me as sisters walked in and took a tour around the store, marveling over the memorabilia and the locally-made mustards and stuff, as I did.

As I went digging for my wallet in my way-too-small-to-carry-anything purse, two of the women came and stood next to me, waiting to buy a few mustards of their own. One of the women eyed my single mustard jar, smiled at me, and said, "Did you see there's a gift set of mini mustards over there? Why try one when you can try all three?" She had a point, but just as she said it, I realized that my cash was dwindling. I had about 22 crumpled-up dollars deep in my wallet and a grand total of $47.93 lighting up on the register.

"Actually, I think I'm going to have to pass on all mustards and maybe a few other goodies." Embarrassed, I explained to the ladies around me that I didn't have quite enough cash to pay for everything I'd picked out, so I started eliminating the mustards for Jim, the hat for my mom, and a few postcards for me.

 Pam felt terrible. She was so apologetic and tried again to get the credit card machine back online. And as she did, the woman standing next to me said, "Well, I'll get the mustard," as she reached for my mustard and placed it in front of her on the counter. And her sister, reaching for the hat and the postcards I had set aside, said, "And I'll pay for these." 

I didn't fully understand what was happening. What were they doing? Were they snagging the items I couldn't afford? No, that couldn't be it. Were they buying the items for me? No, no, that couldn't be it, either. 

But born-and-bred Iowan Pam, being fully versed in Iowa nice caught on right away. She knew just what those kind women were doing. I could tell by the expression on her face, and her reaction clinched it. "Oh, oh, my dear. Well, as I live and breathe, now that's what I call Iowa nice," Pam looked adoringly at the ladies beside me and then at me.

My eyes darted to the two women standing beside me, "Are you—you can't be—I can't—oh, but I couldn't let you do that." She giggled, "Oh, sure you can. It's no biggie. We're happy to help. I'll buy the mustard, and Rose will buy the hat and the postcards."

I was beside myself. I could not believe what these perfect strangers were offering to do for me! I was somewhere between speechless and profusely thanking them while trying to talk them out of it. And they were getting such a kick out of me. It had clearly already been decided, and there was no convincing them otherwise. Even when I explained that the hat and the mustard weren't even for me, they were for family back home, Jeannie replied, "Well, now your family will think kindly of Iowa and want to come for a visit too."

I was almost in tears, and so was Pam. Still floored, "This has got to be the nicest thing perfect strangers have ever done for me. I can't believe—are you sure?!"

"Oh hush—we've got it," Jeannie replied as she and Rose put their money on the counter. I was so touched—so taken back. "What could I ever do to repay?! I'll certainly write about you!" I exclaimed, wracking my brain, trying to think if there was anything other than half-empty bags of pretzels and popcorn in my car that I could gift them. Their only ask was that I speak kindly of Iowa. "This is how we do things. We call it Iowa nice."

"That's right," her sister agreed. Pam was aligned as well. I would've spoken so nicely about Iowa before this lovely encounter, but now? Now, it was official that this day in Iowa would be written in my blog for eternity for all to read. We exchanged names and email addresses, and Jeannie shared that they were Gideons. She said, "Yup, that's Iowa nice." She went on to share, "God brought me to you so I could help you out today." She rummaged in her pocketbook and pulled out a periwinkle, pocket-sized Gideon bible. "Here, I want you to have this. And by the way, I love to pray. So if there's anything you'd like me to pray on, you just let me know."

My deep appreciation for the kindness and generosity these women were demonstrating toward me far outweighed my intrinsic belief that organized religion holds more problems than promise. This was no time or place for deity debates—and that was a no-brainer my head and heart quickly aligned on. Any gift, any offering from a complete stranger—especially Jeannie and Rose was exactly that: a gift, and one I'll take with me and cherish even if it wasn't one I'd choose for myself. Jeannie could've pulled pink and green cheetah-print curtains out of her bag for me, and I would've cherished them all the same. "Jeannie this is so kind and so generous of you. Thank you so much. Are you sure you want to give this to me?"

"Oh, I'm sure. This one's for you. Now, what can I pray on for you?" I couldn't remember ever being asked this before. I wasn't sure how to respond. I kind of felt like Jeannie was my genie, and she was offering to grant me a wish, but what wish would I want the most? I was in the hot seat. I couldn't keep my Jeannie waiting all day! I caved under pressure and went with a modest, "I guess if you could just pray that I make it home safely, that would be great." Meanwhile, I only had another day and a half left in my massive 18-day, 3,885-mile road trip. I was starting to feel like Ralphie in a Christmas Story when his mom asks what he wants for Christmas, and he buckles under pressure and says, "I guess I'd just like some Tinkertoys."

Jeannie promised to get right on that prayer. Suddenly, I felt like I'd jipped myself out of a good, granted wish. Get home safely. Duh! That's a given! She'd probably wish for that anyway! Quick, think of something else before she—"Well, maybe there's one other thing—if it's not too much to ask. I would like to have a husband someday. Is that ok? I don't want to get greedy with your prayers!" Jeannie buttoned up her purse, smiled a knowing smile, and said, "God can handle it." Translation: you're not asking for too much. I smiled. Everything about this day had been completely unexpected. It was really something to smile about.

We said our goodbyes as we walked out to the porch, passing through the portal from the past. I thanked them again profusely for what they'd done for me. "I hope something equally wonderful happens for you both in return for what you did for me today." 

Jeannie and Rose's third sister sat on a rocking chair waiting for them, completely unaware of what had transpired inside. I quickly filled her in, and she wasn't surprised in the slightest. "Aw, isn't that so nice. That's Iowa nice!" It was as though she would've expected this of her sisters. Suddenly they reminded me of the Sanderson sisters from Hocus Pocus, but they would've been the polar antonyms of them because this trio was so warm, sweet, and pious.

I'll never forget what they did for me that day. I drove on to Hogback Bridge and the welcoming town of Winterset—all wrapped in Iowa nice. I thought of Jeannie, Rose, and Mary all day. They had put a smile on my face that wouldn't go away. 

It brings me great joy to deliver on my promise of singing the praises of the lovely people and the enchanting place that is Iowa. I hope this story sticks with you and gives Iowa an allure you've never felt before. That's Iowa nice.