Hometown Pride

Fill in the blank. After that statement, anything could follow. I could say,  So I don’t know what schools are considered good or bad. Or maybe, I didn’t have the crazy world of select sports. Or So I just walked home after school or to Bonnie’s and waited for my parents to get home or pick me up. Or So there was no running to Target at 9 pm. Or even, So the school nurse just drove me home when I was sick.

I lived in Wilber, Nebraska from age 3-18, for a year before I got married, and then never again. I’ve lived in Lincoln, Austin, and Omaha. But Wilber… it’s still where I’m from. You know what I mean? It’s still my hometown. 

So when people from Omaha ask if I’m from Omaha, well, I still hesitate. We’ve lived in Omaha for almost a decade now. You would think this answer would start to get easier. And yet, while Omaha is my Facebook hometown, in my mind, it’s still not where I’m from. 

Maybe it’s because my fromness all lives about 90 miles south of where my life lives. Maybe it’s because that’s where I learned to ride a bike in front of my best friend’s house. Maybe it’s because that’s where I rode that same bike nearly every single day, summer after summer, down the the pool to keep my gills in tiptop shape. Maybe it’s because when I go there, I still catch myself saying I’m going home. Maybe it’s because that’s where I cheered on the sidelines, and tp’d houses with my fellow cheerleaders. Where I learned that sitting the bench for an entire season was still being part of a team. Or where I sang the Star-Spangled Banner at half court and Beautiful in the front of the church. It could even be because that’s where I was surrounded by teachers who saw me as a capable, bright young woman and pressed me to go beyond, even when I didn’t always see it in myself. Maybe it’s because that’s where I had my heart set on a boy who never knew I existed. Or because I learned that for life at 16, you need a lot of friends who love you like a sibling, not just like a friend. Because the people who I went to church with were a second family. And people still give the one finger wave … and not the city kind. Maybe it’s because it was the place where cruising was mostly good, harmless fun {mostly} and yet it felt like enough freedom at the time. Or maybe it’s because it’s the last place I lived with the original 5. My mom. dad. brother. sister. and me. I think if you’re lucky, that hometown feeling is just something that can’t be replicated.

Or maybe. Just maybe. It’s because when I say, “well, we’ve lived in Omaha for 8 years but I grew up in Wilber…” a fair amount of people respond, “ohhhh… I know Wilber. Czech Days!”  Maybe there’s a sense of pride in being from a small town that is far more than a map dot, especially for one weekend out of the year. If you’ve never heard of or been to Czech Days, you’re thinking what’s the big deal? But if you’ve been, you know it’s more than you can explain. More than the polka, the Pivo, and the food. It’s a feeling of roots. And heritage. And pride.

I just can’t let a year pass without writing about Czech Days and where I am from. I can’t. The nostalgia is just too sweet to let it pass by. The oompahpah nestles too deep to ignore. And I can’t help but feel the excitement of dancing the polka, of dripping with sweat in the Beer Garden, of catching up with familiar faces, and of hearing my children’s excitement over the parade, the “big band”, and the corn dogs at LoLo’s. It’s just, like nothing else I’ve ever known.

And while it’s not where my home is, I think it will, for awhile longer, be my hometown. There’s too much of me there… And too much of it inside of me… for me to claim anything else.

For more posts on Czech Days and my hometown:

Back Where I Come From
Czech It Out
I Was Born In a Small Town