Is this Heaven? No, It's Iowa.
[Background for this tale for first-time readers … Growing up, the ONLY thing we knew about my father’s family was that his parents died in the 1930s. Except it turns out they didn’t, which has been the trigger for a bit of a genealogy obsession on my part. Many of you know at least some of the story of my paternal grandparents. For those interested in the unabridged version, go to http://www.searchformygrandparents.com.]
Sometime in 2000
Normally, my business trips (yes, there used to be a thing called “business travel”) are pretty functional. Fly in somewhere. Go to a hotel. Give a speech. Fly home. But for a trip in 2000, once I find that my diversion is only 61 miles away, I know that I must go. Even if it means an extra overnight stop.
All the way up, through endless fields of corn, I marvel at how amazingly dark it is out in the middle of the country. Dark, inside your pocket dark. I start to worry a bit about the stories that might arise if I should slam into some cow suddenly crossing in front of me in the middle of all of this darkness at 60 mph. I can’t remember if I told anyone I was indulging in this diversion, and now I find myself on this lonely stretch of highway, driving away from the place where I am scheduled to give my speech.
Fortunately, I encounter no cows and pull into the parking lot at the Colonial Inn. Probably unnecessarily, I’ve made a reservation at the Colonial Inn, and someone actually waits up for me to give me the key. $29 per night, with wire hangers in the “closet” area included at no extra charge.
I wake up the next morning still a bit surprised that I have actually made this trip. It’s quite foggy, and I decide to wait out the fog. Truth be told, I’m not quite sure what I will find when I get to my destination, which is why I am dragging my feet. A core Mancini family value is a fear of looking foolish, and it is dawning on me that when I tell people where I have come, they will think that I am nuts.
At least 1000 calories later, I decide that it is time. I am not sure why I hesitate. According to my printed directions -- this is a pre MapQuest, pre-GPS era -- my quest is just four miles away.
“People will come, Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past.”
And suddenly I’m here. Dyersville, Iowa. At the Field of Dreams.
I am the only one here. There is no admission fee, no gates. Just a curious trailer-esque souvenir stand that is not quite open yet. Other than that, it’s just like walking directly into a movie.
Truth be told, I am not quite sure why this visit is important to me. I am surprised at how faithful this place is to the peacefulness of the movie, that it hasn’t been turned into some marketing machine. At least not yet. I am guessing it will not survive in this condition forever. [Spoiler alert. It won’t.]
It is, well, just a baseball field. A small backstop, a field and lights. The outfield is bordered by corn, setting up a living homerun barrier around the perimeter of the field. On the first base side, between home plate and first base, are the small bleachers that are the setting for much of the action in the movie. And off a couple of hundred yards behind the bleachers, the beautiful white country house with its wrap around porch, and that porch swing. A porch swing for those twilight hours when the fireflies come out, for those moments when it seems that all is well with the world, when the lines blur at the edge of a cornfield between what is and what could be.
The words of Moonlight Graham (FYI, Burt Lancaster, in his last role) come to mind.
“We just don't recognize life's most significant moments while they're happening. Back then I thought, ‘Well, there'll be other days.’ I didn't realize that that was the only day.”
After coming on this strange side trip, I realize I am hoping that this might not be just one of those “other” days. Not just another of those mindless fly-sleep-eat-speak-fly business trips. Perhaps it could be one of those days. As the James Earl Jones character (Terrance Mann) writes,
“There comes a time when all the cosmic tumblers have clicked into place and the universe opens itself up for a few seconds to show you what is possible.”
Yeah, perhaps I am expecting a bit much from a visit to a small town in eastern Iowa.
Just as my latent cynicism is about to rear its head, I notice a guest book, and start to leaf through the pages.
“My father and I are meeting here today after not speaking to each other for 15 years. Wish me luck.”
“I hadn’t even seen the movie when my kids arranged this trip and told me to bring a baseball glove. I thought they were nuts. They were not.”
“I hope that something magical happens when I go out into the corn. I could really use it right now.”
“We brought our gloves and just stood in the infield throwing the ball around. I had seen the movie, the kids had not. They couldn’t understand why I was crying.”
“Starting chemo tomorrow. I just sat on those little bleachers for an hour. It felt like I was glued to the spot. I just stared at the field, and the bus load of tourists from Minneapolis just faded into the background. For a few moments, I was 12 years old and back at the Polo Grounds.”
Page after page after page of personal epiphanies, page after page of people pouring out their hearts. What a strange place.
During the movie, the mysterious players who come every day to play on Ray Kinsella’s field miraculously appear and disappear from the corn that borders right field. The players just slowly emerge from the corn when it’s time to play, and slowly disappear when the day is done. The edge of the corn field is the tipping point at which the cosmic tumblers click into place.
Terrance Mann is determined to find out what happens in that cornfield.
“Ray. Ray. Listen to me, Ray. Listen to me. There is something out there, Ray, and if I have the courage to go through with this, what a story it'll make.”
In a moment of pure irrationality, I decide what the hell. I am going to walk out to the cornfield and see if anything happens.
Like the characters in the movie, I ease up slowly to the right field corn wall, poking my head in tentatively. I look back to see if anyone else has arrived and is witness to my foolishness. No one is here. OK.
I step into the corn. Nothing. I step in a few steps more. I come back out of the corn into right field and try again. In. out. In. out. Maybe there’s a trick to this. Nothing.
Truth be told, I never fully expected ala the movie that my father would actually appear and offer to have a catch, although I think I had hoped for at least some sort of glimpse into what lay beyond the corn. Of what his life meant, of what he had hoped his life would be, and whether he was at peace.
But alas, while I still retained some of the warm fuzzies from the guest book, this was not to be a day for cosmic tumblers. I head back to the parking lot -- stopping for a souvenir mug at the trailer, a mug featuring the characters from the movie standing amidst the corn. The package says that when you add hot liquid to the cup, the characters disappear into the corn. That’s at least something, I guess.
I hop into the rental car and head back the 60 miles to Cedar Rapids for my speech. Thoughts of my father surround me in a cloud. Perhaps the field had worked some sort of magic after all, just not exactly what I expected.
“Ease his pain.”
