High Beams and Finger Waves
There’s something deeply comforting about the Midwest. It’s domestic, grounded, with this slower pace that just feels right. People care in a way that’s genuine, almost effortless. Take a simple thing—holding the door for someone. In Iowa, I step into a gas station, hold the door for a stranger, and they thank me—out loud, no hesitation. It’s expected, but still warm, like it’s part of the culture.
Now, in Nashville? Sure, people hold the door too, but it’s different. It’s quieter. You might get a polite nod, or a quick, soft “thanks” under their breath, and they’re gone. Up north, though? People practically shout their gratitude, as if holding the door saved their life. It’s funny how even small gestures can carry different energy depending on where you are.
Out here, in the Midwest, everything feels like it takes its time—and people actually appreciate things. It’s not just about the destination; it’s about noticing the journey. People here really take in the changing colors of the leaves, the winding roads that get you where you’re going, and the open sky stretching over miles of fields. It’s a far cry from city life, where I’d forgotten how much beauty there is in just looking around. In Nashville, it's all about efficiency. You put in your destination, let GPS do the work, and focus on how fast you can get there. No one really cares about the route itself.
But here in the Midwest, the road is the experience. People will pull over to pick wildflowers, gather asparagus, or even dig up some wild horseradish on the roadside. You’ve got wood smoke in the air as October settles in, warming homes as the days get shorter. And come winter, well, you’ve gotta be mindful of those gravel roads. There’s no dust in the cold months, but snow and ice make some roads downright impassable. If they’re open at all, you might be the first brave soul to drive down them and test your luck.
And trust me, I’ve used my high beams out here—plenty. The back roads are dark, and when there’s no one around for miles, you need that extra light. In Nashville? Not once. Between the streetlights and the constant traffic, high beams aren’t even a thought.
There’s this quiet connection between people in the Midwest. Even the smallest things, like the finger wave between passing drivers, feel like part of the unspoken understanding everyone shares. The smell of manure in the air reminds you where you are—grounded, tied to the earth in a way that feels refreshing.
In Nashville, whenever I spot a license plate from my home state, I’m always a little surprised. It’s rare, almost out of place. But here? They’re everywhere. That surprise turns into a kind of comfort—a sense of familiarity, of being home.
The Midwest doesn’t rush. It holds onto its traditions, its quirks, its slower pace, and you can feel it in every small town and gravel road. Life here reminds me that not everything has to be about getting to the finish line. The journey itself has its own beauty—and maybe that’s enough.
