Remembering Thedford, Nebraska

Actually, I’d rather not — but as long as I’m here…

Our recent road trip to Iowa took us by way of the scenic route through the Nebraska Sand Hills on the way home. There are some beautiful places — certain stretches of the Loup River, for instance, and the mysterious treeless hills that impart a special kind of peace if the railroad tracks don’t run nearby. Oh, yes, the railroad: it used to be a “hardly ever” kind of thing, but since the development of the Wyoming coal fields, the long trains roll through every 10 minutes, 24 hours a day. If you’re lucky enough to live in a town like Thedford (pop. 176), that means the deafening blasts of diesel locomotive horns around the clock. Each train takes about three minutes to roll by, so the squeal-clack-clickety-clack takes up between a forth and a third of every hour. This is a fascinating thing to have happen in a region once blessed with quiet, at least, if little else.

Even before you get to the Sand Hills themselves, there’s lots of sand and hardly any people. In the town of Ord, for example, where we ended up accidentally on a cloudy afternoon, all 29.5 Ordians (Orders?) were evidently gathered at the miniscule local McDonalds, so we went there, too. It was the smallest McDonald’s I have ever seen, with only one cash register. I was fourth in line. At the counter was a very nice old couple, retired farmer folk perhaps. The man was wearing a windbreaker over his overalls and a gimme cap, the woman was dressed like, well, anybody’s grandmother. They were apparently having an outing and had stopped in as a treat, although it was also evident that they weren’t regular customers. They each wanted a Coke, but weren’t sure which size to order. For each size offered, the cashier had to go partway in back, retrieve an empty cup, and bring it to the counter for them to judge: “No, that’s too big… oops, that’s too small!” and so on. This went on for quite a time. Eventually the two of them made up their minds, got their drinks, and then the husband decided to get one of those apple “pie” things. Yes, they counted out the bill in coins. By this time there were eight more people behind me (Lord knows where they came from), and as the two oldsters turned to leave, the wife suddenly saw the line behind her, opened her eyes wide as saucers, and said:

“MY, this is a big place!”

That was pretty much the highlight of our day. Had we known it would be, we might have driven south to Kearney or Grand Island, but instead we soldiered on to Thedford, where I’d made a reservation. (“Honey, you’ll never guess where I found a real motel in the Sand Hills!”) I won’t tell you where we stayed, but unfortunately, you can’t miss it. It was a standard enough sort of place with two or three amenities. There was a gap under the door big enough for a herd of prairie weasels to stampede through, and I could tell what the neighbors were watching on TV. All in all, it was adequate, if you were 21 or deaf. [See video shot from motel room window, above!] Next door was an evil-looking restaurant, one of those windowless, landlord-green cinder block buildings where local families emerge on Friday nights in T-shirts with toothpicks in their mouths. (I know because I saw one.) This being Tuesday, however, the place was almost empty when I went in to have a look at the menu.

Now, I’ve lived in Taos for almost 10 years. I have long gray hair in a pony tail (protective coloration in these parts), and on this occasion I had on a long-sleeved shirt, cargo pants, sandals, and an amber pendant around my neck. When I walked into this place, the 20-something hostess just couldn’t handle it and actually laughed at me. Figuring this wasn’t a good sign, my wife and I decided to eat road food in our room. If only out of kindness, I suggest avoiding Thedford, lest you overly strain the inhabitants’ world views.

You really have no idea, however.

Down the road the next day, we explored the tiny hamlet of Hyannis, Nebraska. (This didn’t take long.) Normally I have a warm, nostalgic reaction to these out-of-the-way towns in the darkest Midwest, but this time was different. There is no “there,” there, in poor Hyannis. A singulary joyless pall hangs over everything, and there are far too many impoverished little churches. I counted five or six, and I doubt there were that many streets. A better argument for the Buffalo Commons there never was, and it would certainly lift the tenor of the place by replacing the few inhabitants with native ungulants.

The Sand Hills are worth a visit, of course. My wife and I even stopped beside the road and filled a coffee can with sand for the bowl we keep our smudge sticks in. We also saw a mess o’ ducks, and a flock of pelicans.

(This was my third time through, though, and maybe that’s enough!)

Share this post ↓

No related posts.