Trying to beat the searing heat of a midwestern July, I got up at 6AM with the goal of making another 200 miles or so across the middle of the country. I just missed the sunrise, but the sky was still streaked with purple and orange when I opened the blinds of my trailer.
Between the campground and the interstate highway was about fifty miles of back roads, where the speed limit ranged from 20 through the heart of small towns to 45 as I passed corn field after corn field.
Tucked between the long, green fields of corn were silos, barns, and houses, like this homestead. Few and far between, but I was heartened that none of them had the For Sale or upcoming auction signs that I had spotted a few days earlier in southern Indiana.
This old tractor was so evocative I literally pulled my rig over and got out to take some photos of it. In the five minutes I was snapping away, literally zero cars came by. I probably didn’t need to put on my flashers, but I did anyways.
And speaking of tractors, every other small town has a John Deere dealer. You can see that green and yellow logo from a mile away.
The trains still run through here, flying through on their way to somewhere else. One sign I saw warned that the trains can exceed 80 miles per hour. Yikes. I was careful to look both ways, just in case the warning signals were broken.
All too soon, I was out of the small towns and onto the interstate, but not before I got one last photo of these old, rusted storage silos.
I think a common misconception about a small town in rural America is that everyone believes the same way, and nothing could be further from the truth.