Clear Lake, Iowa

I’ve never lived in Clear Lake, Iowa, but my sister and nephews and their families do.  Most people are probably closer to their families than I have been.  I last saw them 7 years ago, but not in Clear Lake.  I haven’t been to Clear Lake in 30 years.  I’ve kind of avoided the Midwest in general, after fleeing it in my youth.  So I was due, some might say overdue, for a visit.  It turned out to be a trip back in time.  We’re talking heartland Americana here: a big, silver water tower right in the center of town, a band shell in the park right out of The Music Man.  In fact, the creator of The Music Man, Meredith Wilson, was born right next door in Mason City and the 1962 movie premiered there.  And, except for the cars, it could still be 1962 in Clear Lake.  Crime is of little concern.  My sister parked her open convertible downtown, valuables scattered about inside, without a care.  The place feels saturated in old-time innocence.  There are no homeless people, few tattoos, no facial piercings or low-slung, baggy jeans.  The only recreational drug is beer.  There are no people of any color but white.  It must be the America the Tea Partiers are nostalgic for (we avoided the subject of politics).  But for me, it felt like what I knew growing up; it felt familiar, and warm with pleasant memories.  I relaxed on a bench in the park, listened to Dixieland jazz from a Kansas City group playing in the band shell, leaned back, looked up at that looming water tower and felt, in many ways, like I had come home.  It had been a long time, but I was finally back in the culture of agriculture.  And when evening came and the fireflies or, as we used to call them when I was a kid, the “lightening bugs,” came out to frolic on the grass, I almost felt like a kid again. 

My sister and my 2 nephews and their families, who both have homes on the lake, have made a life for themselves centered, during the summer, on sailing.  (During the winter they hatch plans about next summer’s sailing.)  My nephews race their sailboats in a regatta every weekend.   I went out in a power boat and watched the start, and then charged over to the first buoy to watch them tack around it.  At least 2 boats went over in the rather stiff breeze and had to be rescued.  Afterward we all sat on one of their porches overlooking the lake, drank Wisconsin beer, and chatted about the details of the race.  It seemed like a pretty agreeable life they’ve carved out for themselves. 

Clear Lake has a year-round population of about 8,000, and that more than doubles during the summer because it’s a resort and site for summer homes for the well-to-do living between Des Moines and Minneapolis.  Everyone knows everyone (when we walked downtown every other person greeted my sister by name), which is cozy but also means it’s hard to keep any secrets for long because everyone is in everyone else’s business.  Gossip is a mainstay. 

Clear Lake’s claim to fame is the Surf Ballroom which was the last venue played by Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and The Big Bopper in 1959 before they all died in a plane crash trying to get to their next gig.  The night I arrived, Cinderella was playing there.  The Surf has a large sunken dance floor shaped like a skating rink with a stage at one end, rows of booths at the other, and elevated space for tables on the sides.  There are a couple of bars in the rear corners where you can get drinks and snacks.  It’s a nice venue that, when I visited on Saturday, was being set up for a wedding reception.  The walls of the lobby are covered with autographed photos of the performers who have played there; quite a long and illustrious list.  In February the annual Winter Dance Party, the event Buddy had just played before the crash, has become a celebration of his legacy.  I’ve got nothing against Buddy Holly but I don’t think I’ll be visiting in February. 

It’s a kind of comfort and consolation that a facsimile of the world I knew in childhood still exists and I can revisit it whenever I want, but it’s not a place I could live now.  The seclusion of it would be stultifying.  I’m used to an edgier, more variegated environment.  But even more than the culture, there’s the climate.  I just missed a triple-digit heat wave, with humidity to match, and the winters are even more brutal.  Decades of living in a Mediterranean climate have sapped my fortitude for such hardships.  And finally, while the lake (which, incidentally, is not clear) is fine for day sailing, as a presence it can’t begin to compete with the awesome extent and power of the Pacific Ocean.