Nostalgic for...South Dakota?
Not the place you'd expect a person to pine after
For reasons not clear to me or any one else, Sioux Falls, South Dakota is one of the places I’m most nostalgic for. My maternal line family roots are in the Midwest—South Dakota, Minnesota, and Chicago. You might say one of these things is not like the other, and you would be right. It’s just that Chicago has an identity not really captured when you talk about the rest of Illinois. Anyway, somewhere in the 1990s, the Midwest oasis of Sioux Falls was rated as one of the best mid-sized cities in the United States. At least that’s what was proclaimed by the Interstate 29 billboard I vividly remember seeing one year as a kid.
Why I distinctly remember reading this we can’t know, but it would appear I’ve been a billboard reader for most of my life now. That billboard and my own experiences there were fuel for my personal campaign to make sure ALL my friends and cousins knew what an incredible place Sioux Falls was. I bragged about that mid-size town like probably only few people have done before.
Each summer, Mom loaded us kids up in whichever station wagon we had at the time and drove 800 miles from one of the prettiest places on Earth—Bozeman, Montana—to South Dakota. Our prone-to-overheating wagon would have been packed carefully to the gills with the groceries, clothes, and camping gear requisite for a multiple-day road trip. Like most 1980s roadtripping families, we also had stuff tied on top and covered by the classic worn blue tarp. Classic.
We were that family that pulled over at rest stops to unearth the cooler for a functional roadside picnic. Our travel entertainment system included the license plate game, the alphabet game, audio cassettes of light books like the full-length David Copperfield, abundant staring out of the windows, and nighttime singing. Mom was often managing these trips solo since most years Dad stayed behind to run the business), and she split the drive over several days.
For her sanity and our enjoyment, Mom planned fun stops at places like Reptile Gardens, Devil’s Tower, the Badlands, Crazy Horse Monument, Leeds and Deadwood, and Spearfish, rewarding our good behavior with frozen delicacies like Flintstones Push-Up pops. If if her roadtripping feats—making and breaking camp and unloading and loading the car—were not impressive enough, she often cooked dinner for the family over the green Coleman camp stove.
As we pulled into her apparently award-winning hometown, Mom would instruct us to brush our hair and render ourselves respectable. One year, I remember pulling into the parking lot of the local fun center well after dark. Mom gave us a spit shine so our grandparents got a good first impression of their beloved grandchildren they hadn’t seen in a year. On this side of the family we were four out of seven grandchildren so statistically a pretty big deal. But Mom seemed to think it didn’t hurt to present your statistically-significant kids in the best possible light.
When our wagon would eventually pull in to the driveway of Grandma and Grandma’s yellow and red brick, always tidy, two-story home, we were first greeted by Penny’s barks. I am pretty sure they loved this red retriever more than they loved us. Penny frankly intimidated me and seemed in general pretty ambivalent about our presence in her house. She did, however, enjoy our possibly-smelly socks accidentally left around the house.
There’s no way to describe the smell of Grandma and Grandpa Richards’ home other than it remains my favorite smell on Earth, edging out even the cherished smell of my childhood Christmas stocking. Not much changed between our visits, which always included humidity, the magical evening sound of cicadas, crooning old-time songs playing on the radio on the back of the upstairs bathroom toilet, and sharing daily puzzles from the local newspaper. The TV upstairs played nearly constantly.
It’s maybe a bit perplexing that I’m as sentimental about our visits as I am. Neither of our grandparents dropped everything to accommodate our visits. Maybe that was just 1980s grandparents—what do I know. Gentle and unassuming and disciplined and fairly private, Grandpa spent lots of our visits in his “office” working on stocks and puzzles and watching baseball. Grandma was more physically present in our visits, but she still largely did what she would’ve done if we weren’t in town. We just kind of worked ourselves into the arrangement and thought they were the best trips ever.
There were lots of hugs and kisses from Grandma’s soft Swedish lips, gentle teasing comments from Grandpa, card games played with the TV playing in the background, and sunbathing on the back patio. Grandma made desserts like Butterscotch Lush bars and Strawberry Parfait. You can make some really delicious things with Jell-O Instant Pudding.
They took us to such fine dining establishments as The Royal Fork (a buffet) and Sunshine Cafe (a breakfast cafe located in a grocery store). I grew up without TV, and so watching anything they watched was a treat—Murder She Wrote, I Love Lucy, The Andy Griffith Show, and baseball. Lots and lots of baseball. Grandma had a few kid-friendly foods on hand, things like Tombstone pizza and root beer and Pinwheels. And maybe a cereal kids might enjoy more than Raisin Bran, but nothing overboard.
We all knew that certain things like Grandma’s Yo-J and favorite treats were off-limits, and it never occurred to us to help ourselves to anything we wanted. We knew better than to ask to watch specific shows or request anything other than what was on the menu for meals. We didn’t mind; that’s just the way it was. And we loved being there. I guess I assumed that, despite a lack of outward demonstrations, bending over backwards to entertain us, or gushing about our visit, they loved having us there. And I loved being there. I loved them, and I assumed or knew they loved me—pretty simple. I knew I belonged there and I somehow felt spoiled there. There was no pressure to be productive there or change the world; I just got to be.
I say there were no outward demonstrations. But there were. Without fail, each visit concluded with Grandma coming out to say goodbye—in the very driveway on which she would suddenly die one February day. She was 92 years old and on her way to her least favorite place on Earth, the doctor’s office.
As our visits concluded and we got the last of our things in the car, she’d pull a tissue from the sleeve of her sweater, or a pocket of her polyester pants. Dabbing at her eyes, in a choked-up voice she would express her love. There was a wonderfully squishy hug and kiss for each of us, then she’d wave tearfully as our wagon pulled out, once again loaded to the gills and topped with the same blue tarp.
Isn’t life tender and cool, and aren’t people interesting? See you in the next one…
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