A Nebraska Sandhills Novel
People fascinate me. I study them everywhere I go. If I'm visiting the Grand Canyon, I find the foreigners around me as interesting as the gorge. If I'm walking the concrete canyons of downtown Chicago, I'm pondering the purposes of the local pedestrians. Walmart parking lots are like free zoos. Now days, thanks to social media, I have access to the minds of the entire world in my pocket. My hobby is a cheap one, and an endless source of entertainment.
Our home is in the narrow corridor between the Nebraska Sandhills and the rest of the world. Broken Bow claims to be the "Gateway to the Sandhills", much to the chagrin of some other towns closer to the border. From my front porch I can spot Sandhill rigs simply by reading the license plates as they drive past. Any county number on our highway between 61 and 93 signifies a Sandhiller. But there's more signs of a Sandhiller than just a license plate.
I once attended a Cornhusker spring game in Lincoln where I spotted a man that I knew from Hyannis. He was waiting in a crowded line in front of me to purchase tickets to the game. He stood out in the crowd as much as if Chuck Conners, The Rifleman, were standing on a street corner in the South Bronx. This got me thinking about the differences between Sandhillers and other folks. The following is a partial list that I came up with.
A few years ago I was privileged to help film an airplane scene in Hyannis. A simple expression struck me at the time and still impresses me today. Our filming crew joined a couple of area ranchers for supper at the Hotel restaurant that evening. When I introduced our young lady pilot to the men, they stood and removed their hats for her. It was one of the most courteous gestures that I've ever witnessed. It made me proud to share this unique culture with the rest of the world.