What is there to see?

My mother was an Indiana farm girl. She lived in many places, including Daytona, Florida, New York City, Georgia, and New England, but I could hear the warmth in her voice when she spoke of his girlhood growing up on the family farm in Sweetser, not far from Marion, Indiana. I wish I had asked more questions about what her life was like; I only heard bits and snatches, anecdotes and reminiscences, and names of relatives who meant nothing to me. But I remember one story in particular which expresses her deep love for the place.

A cousin, I think, was visiting from Chicago. Mom tells about how she and this other girl (I think they must have been in their early twenties, and I have no idea what the cousin's name was) were sitting side by side on the porch swing. It was getting near sunset, and they must have been looking towards the west over the fields of corn and soybeans. Mom's cousin - I'll call her Betty - turned to my mother and asked abruptly, "What is it that you like so much about this place, Janet?"

"Oh," Mom answered dreamily, looking out over the fields at the glow of the setting sun, the dark green of the stalks of corn and the whisps of cloud just catching the last light. "You can see so far!"

Betty answered, "What is there to see?"

Maybe it was a completely innocent answer; I don't know. Maybe it wasn't intended to come across as condescending, or snobbish. Or rude. I guess Mom took it in stride, because that was the way she always handled things. She probably just laughed lightly, and shrugged, and turned her gaze again out to the west.

All right, Cousin Betty had a point. There wasn't much to look at; just fields and sky. But Mom found beauty in that. It wasn't that there was nothing to see; it was that poor Betty couldn't see it. Couldn't see the tranquil beauty of open space, of subtle shades of color, of the patterns of shadow. Couldn't understand the beauty of something that just grew, that wasn't manmade. Couldn't see the allure of the horizon, or feel the serenity of knowing, and being in, one's own special space.

I do have specific memories of the farm, which I saw alternate years until I was in my early teens. I recall fireflies as we played croquet on the lawn, and riding beside my grandfather on one of the tractors, my marvel at the massiveness of the combine. Running between the rows of corn, and building forts in the hayloft. The wonders of the antiques in the attic: ancient lamps, dusty furniture, and an old hand-cranked Edison Victrola.

I'm kicking around ideas for another story set in the Midwest. I'm drawn to the details, through, in my attempt to completely and honestly create the scene my characters will inhabit. There's so much to see.

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