As a kid growing up in Atchison, Kansas, it was a rare and momentous occasion for our family of six to go out for dinner. I’m not talking about driving through McDonald’s for my dad’s classic favorite “bag o’ burgers” to take back home and eat at the house. I’m talking about putting on a matching outfit, brushing my hair, piling into the car and going downtown for a sit-down dinner at Pete’s Steakhouse. I remember the long, carpeted hallway walking into the restaurant, the creepy animatronic fortune teller machine, the smell of fried food, cigarettes, and Italian/Mediterranean cuisine. The thrill and oddity of the dimmed lights, the endlessly high booth divider, the red plastic cup that magically re-filled with pop, the mysterious second-floor room that was roped off, inaccessible and irresistible. Aside from the fried cheese curds that were the staple of every visit and the eclectic salad bar, I have no memory of the food. Yet, I anticipated every experience with the excitement and discipline remarkably similar to that of my dog when I’m holding a spoonful of peanut butter. Laughing with my parents and brothers, cheese curds and pop, and the just-exotic-enough environment made family dinner at Pete’s peak happiness in my youth.
It’s been years since I’ve been back to Atchison. My parents moved when I was 19 years old, the summer after I took off to Dubuque, Iowa for college. It was a “rip off the band-aid” move—they packed up the contents of our 100+ year-old brick home in which I had lived my entire life, and shipped it south to Paducah, Kentucky. I was notified of this development the day I came home for summer break from my first year of college. I sat on the front porch, staring across the street at Benedictine College, watching the trees wave gently in the wind and the slow summer traffic meander through campus. I had spent hours on that porch imagining, creating, cooling off, taking solace in the natural patterns of life and earth. My heart was broken as I soaked in the last few minutes I would ever spend in that sacred place. The next day I packed my bags and my newly extracted roots, boarded a plane and flew to California to spend a few weeks with my best friend. When I came home, it was to Paducah.
My college years in Dubuque were formative, but overshadowed by trauma, pain, and secrecy. I resented this city and my lack of connection. Furthermore, going home and re-grounding was no longer an option. When I graduated in 2008, I committed to two years of full-time service with AmeriCorps in Dubuque. Between July 2010 and April 2013, I got married, had a baby, became pregnant with another baby, got divorced, started a new job, moved to an apartment, got into a (minor) car accident, gave birth to aforementioned other baby, and cut all ties with the only family and support group I had here, however imperfect. My resentment grew. I felt stuck in a place that I hated… and it hated me back.
I met the man who is now my husband in May 2013, on my last day of maternity leave. This serendipitous encounter was the day that split my life into “before” and “after”.
Dubuque has been my home now for the better part of two decades. I’ve lived a lot of life here. In fact, I’m nearing the tipping point where I’ve been a Dubuquer longer than anything else. Life is significantly more stable now. Paul and I got married in 2016, bought a home, got a dog, and have drifted listlessly into routine. We love and appreciate all the Midwest has to offer: hunting, fishing, hiking, smiling at strangers, exclaiming “ope!”, bonfires, sledding, mosquitoes… the whole bit.
Recently, Paul was on an ice fishing trip with his college friends in northcentral Wisconsin on the same day that I had a highly anticipated and extremely scarce night out planned with my small division of beloved coworkers and their spouses. There were 13 of us total, yours truly constituting the 13th wheel. Our line of work does not allow us anonymity in town, especially when we’re out en masse, so we crossed the Mississippi and settled in at Louisburg Junction in Cuba City, Wisconsin (Paul’s home town).
Walking through the door was like taking a step back in time. The dim lights, people everywhere talking and laughing, the smell of fried food. As I made my rounds checking in with each couple, I felt a joy and comfort that I hadn’t known I was missing. Between trips to the salad bar and sipping Old Fashioneds, we took turns trading stories that embellished our risks and understated our contributions. I consumed an enormous serving of parmesan-encrusted cod (highly recommend) and topped it off with a hand-mixed boozy ice cream concoction known as a Pink Squirrel.
Whitney Houston serenaded us as we began to make after-party plans, and I was keenly aware of my contentment and satisfaction with being in the company of good people at a humble supper club in southwest Wisconsin. Although the Amaretto can’t be ruled out as an accelerant, a peace and warmth restored in my soul. The incongruence between “who I am” and “who I knew I was” had finally realigned. I was an adult and a child in the same moment.
The connection I have been seeking for so long is not to this city, the people, the job, the house, the dog. Turns out I’ve been trying for decades to find my way back to myself. Had I known the path was paved with cheese curds, dim lights, and Pink Squirrels I may have made the journey sooner. But you don’t know which path to take when you don’t know what you’re looking for. And you don’t know what you’re looking for if you don’t know you’ve lost something. And you don’t know if you’ve lost something when it fades away gradually instead of vanishing all at once. How thrilling to be in the right place at the right time with the right people for all of the pieces came together. A rare and momentous occasion, indeed.
