Skip to main content

Rural Renewal

Redevelopment starts small. Could it be something as simple as Christmas lights on the square? Let’s hope so.

During a recent visit to Cuba, Illinois, I discovered a nugget of renewal.

Cuba is a small, rural farming community in west-central Illinois where I grew up. Like many small towns, it has a Main Street, boasts a central square with a bandstand, old-fashioned street lamps, and a veterans’ memorial, surrounded by the local businesses. During my youth, it was a thriving community. Today it’s a relic, one of those midwestern towns that have fallen into decay. I never witnessed the decay; it was 1976 when I moved to Macomb to attend Western Illinois University. From there, I moved to California. At least once a year I return home to visit family.

This year I lost my father. He was 80 years old, his spirit lives in all the people he touched. Exasperated by the realization of losing her friend and lifelong companion, I quickly realized my mother found a lot to complain about. “It’s too cold here,” she said. Granted the temperature was three degrees above zero with wind chills of -10 below. “This town is a junk pile,” she quipped.

If you grew up in an urban environment, imagine Mayberry from the Andy Griffith Show, then picture all the business’s closed. That’s Cuba in a nutshell. 

It is disheartening. A stroll around town will show beautiful old houses that today stand vacant, windows were broken out, and collapsing. However, we discovered a glimmer of hope.

One night, after returning from the hospital, instead of going straight home Mom and I made a quick trip around the Square.

"This is the first year we've had Christmas lights on the square for many years," she said in amazement.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

The next morning I bundled up with warm layers of clothes and walked the cold wintery streets looking for signs of a caring community. It had to be there. The seeds of kind-hearted, attentive residents I remembered growing up as a young boy. I didn’t have to look very far. Just one block from my mothers' house, blanketed in snow, the neighbors had beautifully decorated their yard with colorfully lit Christmas trees and multicolored lights framing their house. Filled with hope, I plodded on, the rhythmic crunching of snow beneath my boots.

Then I saw what looked like a birdhouse on a pole near the street. To my surprise, it was a handcrafted replica of an old-style schoolhouse, complete with siding and shingles on the roof. It was crowned with a steeple and a small bell atop. The sign on it read, “Gale’s Little Free Library - Take a Book or Return a Book.” How cool was that? The community spirit was beginning to show.

Another morning we stopped in The Cuba Senior Center just to say hello. It’s in the same building that was once home to Marshall's Furniture, Plumbing, and Heating. There we found a group of silver-haired ladies in a circle doing flexibility exercises. Sitting at a large table, one of the men placing pieces in an oversized Norman Rockwell photo puzzle recognized me.

“Patrick Ball, its been over 40 years since I’ve seen you,” he said. “So sorry to hear about your Dad’s passing. He will be sorely missed.”

“Thanks,” I said. “How have you been John?” We picked up a conversation like I had never left. 

“I’m doin‘ all right, he said. “Yep, still here in Cuba guess I’ll never leave.”

He continued, “I remember when your dad quit smokin’. Lucky Strike cigarettes went from 15 cents to a quarter a pack. He just stopped. Claimed your Mom wouldn’t give him the money to make up the difference. So he just quit.” 

We both laughed.

After visiting with other locals, I discovered there are enterprising young people who have moved to Cuba to escape the hustle and bustle of the Urban environment. They are active in Cuba Cares, a committee formed to encourage community renewal. Turns out this is the group responsible for the festive holiday lighting and lanterns on the square.

During this visit I also discovered a Subway restaurant had just opened. An article from the Canton Daily Ledger announcing it’s grand opening Friday, March 13, 2014. This just did not seem possible. 

Yes, renewal is a community project! It takes families, visitors, and business’ to make small town America thrive again. If you happen to pass through any midwestern community at breakfast or lunch look for the pickup trucks outside the Cafe on Main Street. The more trucks the better the coffee and the food. Or maybe you need gas for your car? You can’t miss the now ubiquitous Casey’s General Store. 

If you visit Cuba during the Spoon River Scenic Drive there are a wide variety of craft booths on the square. The library is a great place to learn about the history of Fulton county. Just across the street is the post office, another early morning gathering place to stop and chat with a friend or neighbor.

The more I looked for the good the better I felt about the seeds of renewal.

So, if you need a vacation and want to get away from freeways, the hustle and bustle of the city visit small town America. Step back in time, get out of your car, patronize the local establishments, simply smile and say hello to the friendly folks you meet on the street. They will return a smile and happily strike up a conversation with you. As Summer approaches don’t be surprised if it’s about baseball. If you listen carefully you might hear a game on a car radio. This is Cubs and Cardinals country.

I’m convinced, it is the contributions of energetic young people living in Cuba and small towns like it that will bring back these dynamic communities.


Maybe it is something as simple as Christmas lights on the square?

Comments

Patrick B. Ball said…
I was drawn To this particular blog post today after re-reading articles from The country doctor by James K. Welch MD if you haven’t had a chance to read it stop by the Spoon River library in Cuba Illinois and pick up a copy it’s worth the read.

Most Popular of All Time

The Language of Home: Building a Sanctuary

This episode is  for anyone trying to find their footing in a new place—whether it’s a new city, a new job, or a new country. The light in Florence, Italy, has a way of making everything feel like a Renaissance painting—the golden hue on the stone, the steady rhythm of the Arno River, and the feeling that you are walking through a history much larger than yourself. I was there to give a presentation to a class of Gemology students. I was prepared to discuss color grading and refractive indices, but not to be outed as a language tutor . Feeling very much like a guest in a storied land, a hand shot up enthusiastically. "You’re the guy on the podcasts," the young woman said, her eyes bright with recognition. "You’re the one teaching us English." I laughed nervously. If you know my flat Midwestern accent, you know the irony here. I am hardly an Oxford professor. But later, as I wandered the cobblestone streets beneath the shadow of the Duomo, the humor faded into a powe...

Practiced Hands: The 50-Year Warranty

What Doc Burch Taught Me About Staying Active. We talk a lot about "life hacks" these days, but most of them don’t have a very long shelf life. Usually, they’re forgotten by the next app update. But back in 1972, I received a piece of advice that came with a 50-year warranty. It’s the reason I’m still on my bike today, still chasing a golf ball around Carlsbad, and still—mostly—in one piece. The Kick That Changed Everything It started with a literal kick in the pants. A kid at school in Cuba, Illinois, was joking around and caught me just right. By the next morning, my lower back was screaming. My mom didn’t reach for the Tylenol; she reached for her car keys. "Let’s go see Doc Burch," she said. "He’ll fix you right up." Harry E. Burch, D.C., was a fixture in Lewistown. He’d graduated from Palmer College in ’59 and had been our family’s go-to for years. He was a man of practiced hands and steady eyes. After a quick exam and an X-ray, the mood in the room s...

On the Fly–Taking Flight

In this special 500th episode,  On the Fly  is moving to a new home. Here’s why—and what’s staying the same. For a very long time (since April 2012),  On the Fly  has lived on  Blogger . Blogger has been a reliable host—dependable, quiet, and never complaining when I arrived late with another half-baked idea, a guitar riff, or a story that needed a little air. It faithfully archived my thoughts, my music, and more than a decade of curiosity. But the internet has changed. It’s louder now. Flashier. More insistent. Every thought is nudged to perform. Every sentence wants to be optimized, monetized, or interrupted by something that really wants your attention right this second. I’ve been craving the opposite. So today, On the Fly is moving to Substack . If you’ve been with me for a while, you know my quiet obsession: the A rt of Seeing . I’m interested in the moments we rush past—the Aversion Trap, the discipline hidden inside a guitarist’s daily practice, t...

Chasing 70

In this episode,  Chasing 70: A Respectful Negotiation with Gravity They say golf is a game of misses. If that’s true, my first round of the year at Rancho Carlsbad was a masterclass in missing efficiently . After a four-month hiatus—during which my golf clubs quietly evolved into a self-sustaining garage ecosystem—Lori and I returned to our local par-three proving ground. Rancho Carlsbad is a par-54, just 1,983 yards long. That sounds forgiving until it exposes every weakness you’ve been politely ignoring during the off-season. I finished with a 78. In most contexts, 78 is respectable. On a par-54, it means I spent a fair amount of time “getting my steps in.” But here’s the real motivation: I turn 70 this August. As a core principle of my Great Un-Working Lifestyle, I’m putting it in writing: I want to shoot my age by my birthday. The Bald-Headed Man Course Around here, we have a nickname for Rancho Carlsbad. We call it the Bald-Headed Man Course. First, because there are no woods...