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

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Misfits at Halloween

In this episode - Misfits at Halloween . . . It’s autumn, and Halloween is approaching - how do you capture the experience, the smells, the rustling sounds of multicolored falling leaves, the quiet, peaceful feeling, the solitude of life in a small town? News flash, I’m here to tell you it’s not always as tranquil as sentimental storytellers like to depict it. Admittedly, like all agrarian communities, Cuba had its pranksters. Thankfully, though, in our small, rural farming community of the late 1960s and early 70s, I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no gang shootings, and no serious vandalism. Well, ok, we did torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife (I don’t remember his name). In the fall, most families would have harvested their gardens by Halloween, but inevitably, there would be leftovers. A group of us would hide behind Jim Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and hurl the leftover, soft, rotten tomatoes at Barney’s squad car as he patrolled the town. F...