For Dutch-American Heritage Day

Whatever the cause, we  needed a sump pump--new house, too dang much rain, walk-out basement--we needed a sump pump. But where to buy one--'twas a Sunday as I remember, and there sure warn't no place I knew of to buy a sump pump on the Sabbath. 

"Go to Le Mars," the neighbor said.

"Bomgaars open there, you think?" I said. Orange City's sure enough wasn't.

"South of 10," he answered easy en0ugh.

I had to think that answer through. Hwy 10 runs through Sioux County, west to east, from the Big Sioux at Hawarden to Granville. When it does, it creates a line behind which--to the north--lies "Dutch Siouxland." "South of 10," roughly, abides a different world, the world whose inhabitants my people for  years, maybe a century, called "Americans."  

For the record, the Dutch came to Sioux County, Iowa, in or around 1870. At the same time--same year--another ethnic contingent, this one from Luxembourg, found their way to the last unsettled region of Iowa and parked their colony just a bit east and north of the wooden  shoes. The Dutch came from Pella mostly, the Luxembourgers from St. Donatus, where they left a tiny village that looks in places as if nothing's moved.

For the record, the sprawling lines of the railroad picked out a place and determined it to be a stop--water and wood for billowing engines. They created similar burgs out here for their convenience until homesteaders came along to call the place a town. That's how Marcus was born, a railroad town, no nirvana for ethnic types in wooden shoes, black dresses, and long prayers. 

There were no visions, no scriptural mandates, just cord wood and water for the boiler.

In Marcus, a depot went up, as well as the section man's shanty, together creating the very first sense of something standing here in a treeless prairie so broad you could ride all week long and not get out of it. The town's name wasn't particularly difficult for John Blair, the railroad king, head of the Iowa City to Sioux City Railroad,, whose son just happened to be named--well, Marcus. 

Orange City is named for a storied Dutch hero of mythic proportions. 

Mr. Blair had a thing about names. When Aurelia was incorporated (it was platted as early as 1883), the king of northwest Iowa railroads simply slapped down the name of one of his daughters.

Cherokee, Iowa, had only a bit less pragmatic birth. A half-dozen families from Massachusetts bought up land for purposes of trying life out west. If those original families shared a religious heritage, history doesn't mention it.

I've spent a month now "south of 10," in a convalescent home in Marcus, Iowa, cared for lovingly by a bevy of nurses, CNAs, and others who don't call Orange City home. They're a terrific bunch I'd commend to anyone, but many of them don't know the Dutch, except for this Tulip thing of theirs and the sheer awe they exhibit in the presence of high school volleyball giants.

They're the children of Americans, all of them, and daily they do my dirty work--they sweep my legs into bed and out, they  undress me, change my underwear, wipe my butt, and move me, when asked, from chair to toilet and back. 

They have tougher stories than I'm used to and a bunch more tattoos. They seem to have more dogs than marriages, although that might be disputed. Many work part-time, then double up at other old folks' homes. They're not rich. They're just plain dang good at what they do. 

Don't mention this north of 10, but I believe I've fallen in love with a dozen of 'em--"Americans."