Nebraska

I rarely feel pangs of homesickness.  When I do it is for my dear loved ones.  Or maybe In-N-Out Burger.

But I caught Nebraska on TV and I found myself missing America a little.

I have been to Nebraska twice.  Grand Island, Nebraska.  Once when I was four, with my mother, brother, and grandparents.  We rented a van and took the seats out of the back, replacing them with a mattress.  (It was the late 70s.  Probably almost legal.)  My brother was two and just had been diagnosed as being deaf after his spinal meningitis.  My grandmother was already in terrible health and we plotted our route around dialysis centers.  I remember houses without fences between them.  And the sickly-sweet flavor of A&E Root Beer from a vending machine (after a hippie childhood without sugar.)

The second time was the summer after my freshman year of college, I think.  (I could check.  I watched David Letterman’s last show on NBC on that trip.  Tom Hanks was the guest.)  My mother, sister, and I drove to a Williamson family reunion.  A storm had just swept through town.  The cemetery was littered with branches.  A tornado struck during the reunion.  After a lifetime of earthquakes, watching a tornado from afar — moving almost in slow motion — was mesmerizing.  I also remember fireflies out back behind my great aunt Katie’s house.  Constellations of fireflies winking in and out of existence below the constellations of stars above.