An open letter to the Midwest … and a slice of raisin pie

The first semester after arriving to Mizzou in the fall of 2022 was one that brought some hard, albeit necessary lessons. One of which, was learning how to make my grandma Swabby’s raisin pie. My classmates, with a great deal of suspicion, indulged me in the possibility of having a slice of my grandma’s raisin pie. Raisin pie is sweet, the beauty of it is rooted in the few ingredients that it requires. From what I could find online, raisin pie seems to have German roots, something in common with my grandmother who I texted, asking for the recipe in early November. 

Both making the pie and then sharing it with my newfound friends and classmates of my Journalism Literature course, reminded me so much of growing up in Henry County. A place I proudly claim, usually explaining “home” as being south of Kansas City and north of Springfield for those who have never heard of Montrose or Clinton. 

One of my earliest memories has to do with getting on the bus as an early elementary student, attending a small country school called Davis R-XII. The early mornings of autumn, when the cool morning air mixes with the humidity creates a beautiful reaction in the form of fog. These low laying clouds would stretch across the open field across the road from my house, catching the golden hues of the sun that was just peaking over the far-off tree line. The oranges and pinks melded together in the sky above, capturing my attention, until it was broken away by the rhythmic flashing light of the banana yellow school bus, covered in dust, that was barreling down the blacktop. I can still feel the wet grass on my tennis shoes and the morning air on my face when I close my eyes and focus on it.  

When I start to reminisce, I am filled with these idyllic scenes, but nearly every memory is tied to a person or people within it. The people in the Midwest are a hearty people, full of quiet strength and the ideals that make them who they are. These are the people who raised me. They are the people who challenged me and pushed me. These humble folks are the people who told me to dream big and never stop until I get to where I am going. 

 I will be forever proud of where I am from. 

 I can feel those who were here before me, especially my great-grandmother Keller. She was a writer, columnist and certainly someone with a passion for words. I can remember my days as an intern at the Clinton Daily Democrat where people would tell me how proud she would be to know my byline is showing up in the same paper hers once had. It is on the hard days, when journalism feels like it is too big or too much, that I can sense her. A feeling of overwhelming reassurance, whispering that I too, would be okay. 

 My hope for this place that I have always called home is that we can never forget the ideals that we relied on for so long – helping a neighbor in need, just because. There is a beauty in this that is rooted in the human experience. We cannot let divisiveness and nastiness by the people who have never thrown haybales on an unseasonably warm Labor Day or broke bread at a chicken fry come between us for their own personal gain. It is so much easier to shut people out based on the smallest disagreement, but so much more worthwhile to lean on the good that can be found in the people around us. 

 There is a level of growing up rural in the Midwest that creates plenty of opportunities for me to have something “interesting” about me, and that, is a gift. Yes, I do in fact think I could still butcher a deer, duck, or chicken (even though I stopped eating meat years ago). Yes, I do know what is edible and growing just down in the patch of trees that lie beyond the roadside. Yes, I do sometimes throw out a “y’all”, say peony like pee-oh-knee and the plural of wolf usually comes out as “wuhvs”. I have even been known to pronounce the invisible “r” in washcloth. I think I will forever share a camaraderie when I see a blue FFA jacket and get excited when I hear that unmistakable chord of Copperhead Road ring out.  

The purpose of writing this open letter is as a cathartic way to say a long (very on brand) midwestern see you later. I will be moving west, to the mountains of Park City, Utah, to take a job with the Park Record. It is a whirlwind of emotions to get the opportunity like this. Excitement and readiness have bloomed out of the trust I feel from the people who have brought me on to the team out west. I am scared, of course, to be moving somewhere I have never been, but what is life without some healthy fear. I wrote in a short essay a few months ago about the idea of being unable to return home and the mourning that comes with that. Here is a little from that piece that I think fits here: 

 “I can acknowledge I am proud of my roots but know that we sometimes need different soil to flourish. I hold no resentment, I never say I “got out” of my hometown, and I would not dare to think my path is better than any of the other eight folks I graduated high school with. 

I put on my cowboy hat and stand in my oldest friends’ weddings. 

I make the journey back home to mourn at the funerals for neighbors and distant relatives. 

I gladly pack up my camera to take senior portraits of my sister’s boyfriend’s younger brother, because his mom knows I know how to work one of those things. 

I raise my hands at the Montrose Memorial Day festival and smile a melancholy smile while the 80’s cover band sings “We built this city on rock and roll”, knowing I am on the path I need to be, even if it means I can’t go home.” 

 I had no clue what path would unfold in front of me in the months to come. What I have gained from it though, is the unmistakable clarity of what a privilege it is to be able to miss the place you are from. There are layers to the mourning that are going to be the physical space. Those mornings of magic I experienced as a child waiting for the bus and the untouched wildness of a river bottom are some of the places that will be missed. However, it is the people that make the space for me. A family that has always lifted me up, friends that have believed in me on days when I didn’t believe in myself, educators and coaches that have pushed me past the point of anything I thought I could do. These are the people who have made my stomping grounds sacred. The prayers and good vibes did not go unfelt. 

For now, this is a see you later, Midwest. I will no doubt write and send LOTS of pictures until I can get back this way.  

Maybe, just maybe, I will have to bake a raisin pie when I get to Park City and share that piece of me with the folks living in the mountains. 

Thank you for loving me and allowing me to dream big for these past 24 years. 

 With love and light, 

 Clayton