Nebraska Smells Like . . .
“I listen to audiobooks at 2X speed,” I assured her.
As though not hearing me, she continued. “You southern people have a hard time keeping up with us New Yorkers.”
"I’m from Nebraska.”
“Nebraska? You don’t hear that very often.”
I gave her a well-practiced Nebraskan response. “Nope.”
This woman wore the state of New York like a badge of honor. Her voice was loud enough to carry over a dozen honking taxis, and her personality could have pushed over the Statue of Liberty.
“Have you been in a car accident?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure where this was going. “No.”
“Experienced some sort of blunt force trauma?”
Other than this conversation? “No. I grew up riding horses.”
“Oh, that explains it. Don’t you feel how this shoulder is higher than the other?” She placed her hand on my right shoulder.
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“Well it is. Your body hunches over to the left.”
I’d have to take her word for it.
“Well, let’s get your x-rays.”
Instant relief. This was why I had come. “Sounds good.”
“Place your spine against this wall here,” she instructed, “square your shoulders. This red light should split you down the middle.”
That didn’t sound pleasant, but I moved into place.
“Now, don’t move an inch,” she said, disappearing into a glass box in the back of the room. She fiddled with the machine. “Nebraska, huh?”
Nodding was out of the question, so I offered another Nebraskan response. “Yep.”
“Alright I need you to take a deep breath and hold it.”
While I inhaled, she kept talking. “I drove through your state once. It smelled like poop. Don’t let your breath out yet.”
Lungs full, I thought about all my visits to NYC, where I caught more than one whiff of excrement.
Only, I was pretty sure those scents hadn’t come from feedlots.
But I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t allowed to breathe.
And it was probably best to keep holding the air a little longer than necessary, before slowly exhaling and following it up with a couple more deep breaths.
Because there’s a lot I could have said in response.
Nebraska smells like the salt of the earth. Like hard work. Like leather and horse sweat and long days in the saddle. Nebraska smells like wheat grass and cloudless skies, like sweet corn, and alfalfa. In the spring you can smell fresh-turned soil, and in the summer, tomatoes ripening on the vine. Nebraska smells like diesel and dirt and cheap beer. Like barns and old wood, like hay bales drying in the sun. Winter snows smell crisp and faintly metallic, like Mother Nature wiping the slate clean. Nebraska smells like chili and homemade cinnamon rolls, like tater tot casseroles and steak grilling over charcoal.
Nebraska smells like deep breaths. Like air you don’t have to compete for. Like space enough to stand up straight without pushing anyone else out of the way. Nebraska smells like knowing when to speak and when not to. Like holding your breath and letting other people be loud. Like understanding that not everything worth defending needs it.
Nebraska smells like home, no matter how long I’ve lived anywhere else.
“Alright, you can breathe,” the x-ray technician said. “I got what I need.”
I released the air from my lungs and stepped away from the machine. Nebraska didn’t owe this woman an explanation or need a defense. And because I was raised in the Midwest, I maintained my polite smile and thanked her as I walked out the door.
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