A Stranger In A Strange Land

Limon, Colorado is a friendly place set down in a wide loneliness. From the Spanish word for lemon, limón. But pronounced Lie-man, in this town. Were there fragrant groves, the bare arms of women reaching up? If so, no longer. The main employer, now, is a mixed custody Level IV prison.

August 4th, 2016. There were blinding God-rays pouring through clouds as I entered Colorado from Kansas. Darkness falling as I pulled into the sloping parking lot of Limon’s Holiday Inn. A ten hour drive from Omaha, if you don’t take the fastest route. Yes, I wanted off I80, dipping farther south as I made the first leg of a drive to Snowmass Colorado, to meet up with my husband, Jim, at the end of his three weeks of throwing clay and stoking wood-fired kilns at Anderson Ranch Art Center. A happily married woman who loves a solitary, meandering drive. My own eyes, my own thoughts, my own backache and pee stops.

Today I got what I wanted, a journey on smaller roads, from my home in verdant eastern & south central Nebraska, from rolling muscular waves of intensely cultivated land, from the Platte to the Republican River Valley, flattening out to Kansas and gradually drier terrain of cattle ranch, horse farms, and the ubiquitous corn corn corn, some beans, some sorghum, some alfalfa but not much, and of course grass. Huge fresh bales on the recently harvested fields. A blessed absence of large field equipment on the roads, the first harvests having passed, the next harvests yet to come. A palette of dull and shining golds, of tired greens and zingy ones. An occasional long low building with fans and feed silos attached, no signage, which generally means pig CAFO. Some kind of CAFO. Which always makes me sad. I want to look away. That’s why, of course, there’s no signage. But I also see cows on open range, cows wading awkwardly into creeks. Standing blissful in muddy water. Black Angus, mainly, but some others I recognize, Hereford, Charolais. Even a big herd of Belted Galloways. From the thin pasturage and windy moors of southwest Scotland. And a few Piedmontese with their delicious tender flesh that is not produced from grain-feeding but from the microscopic fat cells in the fiber of their flesh. Everything delicious goes way back in time, folks, takes time, too, despite what Monsanto will tell you. And everything we eat, except for a few things like aronia berries and sunchokes, goes back to some place foreign. But let’s not get into prairie politics—we’re feeding the world, blah blah—or not yet, anyway. I love a good steak. Even better, a juicy hamburger! Let’s just say I see a lot of cattle transport trucks on the road. Lots of beef going to slaughter. Eighteen happy months and one very bad day, as they say in these parts.

But I forgot to mention stopping for lunch in Holdrege, Nebraska, where Nebraska Rural Living has its beating heart, Betty Sayers. She was right around the corner, but I had not met her yet. I enjoyed a nice meal of chicken tacos, beans and rice at El Agave, a family restaurant. I asked for hotter salsa and got a bottle of the wonderful Cholula hot sauce. I kept slipping around on my chair—was it the hot sauce or the polyurethane slathered over manic scenes of old-timey Mexico? I had a good view of the silos, those standing stones of the Great Plains. God, I love these contrasts.

Sunny skies, heading out again, heading south-west into Kansas, sun overhead, skies with many interesting and different clouds, skies doing their We-Are-Much-Bigger-Than-You-Are thing. Which I find deeply reassuring. Thank you, skies of the Great Plains, for being clear about that.

Deeply courteous people in these parts, people who look me in the eye, offering nothing unless I’m fool enough to need help, as I wind my way up onto the Colorado Plateau, people clearly of a different tribe from whatever my tribe is, but that’s okay, that’s the point!

This being my first post for Nebraska Rural Living, I’ll tell you up front that I’m not from these parts. I’ve settled in Omaha but I’m from the east coast. Someone who likes being an outsider. A stranger in a strange land. Among people who do not see the world, let alone me, the way that I do. Mostly I like it. Because, let’s be honest, I don’t have to bed down with the people I run into. Like the guy with more than 25 American flags stuck at crazy angles into a pile of rocks and broken down furniture near the entrance to his driveway, who’s built a berm around his house. A house too far back from the road that I’m on now, Highway 24 heading out of Limon, for me to see if there’s a moat with crocodiles inside that berm.

I’m a writer who loves to cook. Here’s my recipe. Flour freshly ground from grains of research. Moistened with the waters of observation. Fermented with the yeasts of imagination, which must—always, always—be gathered from a specific place and local airs. A touch of salt, for preservation, not nostalgia. A form of honesty that is more volatile and wild than literal. The proud humility of a writer who knows she needs the world more than the world needs her.

Thank you, Nebraska, for being the unlikely place that snatched me up out of Massachusetts by the hair—a story for another day—shook me, and dropped me down in Omaha. Which I adore. Yes, I adore Omaha! No wait-and-see, don’t-show-your-cards, Midwestern caution for me! I’m still the same person who started out as a child on a farm in Vermont, with all sorts of farm animals, and farm chores, as well as imaginary friends. A child alone, wandering through fields, down dirt roads, through forests, and along the shore of Lake Champlain, looking, listening, wondering. Singing. Making stuff up.

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Stranger In A Strange Land: essays by Meredith Ann Fuller on being a newcomer to Nebraska. My heart is a migrant. Perforce I moved to Nebraska. By happy startled choice I live where the kindness of strangers is usually genuine, and niceness is like a nervous tic, or a dessert you don’t really have room for, but it would be rude to say no. I left the ocean and a big city for a home in Omaha, my lunge line tethered to a big sky. Rolling prairie makes me swoon, the edge of the world cresting, disappearing, and reappearing, and I might just end up driving right into the clouds and getting seriously lost. I like being a stranger in a strange land. We are all the other, even if we don’t know it. In the Mayan language, in la’ketch means I am another yourself. As a writer, I hope to make you fall in love with strangers, including people you don’t approve of.

12 Comments to “A Stranger In A Strange Land”

  1. Alice Mauer says:


    I love this article…your contribution to Nebraska Rural Living.
    So enjoyable to read your view of Nebraska. Refreshing!

    Keep writin’ my friend…..


  2. betty sayers says:

    Fine work, Meredith, your writing refreshes my view of rural, and your generosity shines through every sentence.

  3. Susan Pope says:

    Meredith, you have a wonderful eye and bring that vision into words so perfectly. Loved, among other things, “silos, those standing stones of the Great Plains,” And the paragraph starting “I am a writer who loves to cook….” The conclusion too ties it up well. I am getting a feel for Nebraska.

  4. Sharon says:

    I so enjoyed your story, and at the same time I was envious, you see I was born in Nebraska but my parents did not want to be farmers like their parents, so at around the age of 2 1/2 years old off we moved to Southern California. I was blessed to return to my grandparents,farmers, in Central Nebraska every summer vacation, and my heart is still in Nebraska. Please keep up the good work writing about all things Nebraska.

    • Hello Sharon. I am so honored to receive your response. Nothing means more to me than to speak to and hear from people who know this part of the world! California is, of course, one of so many places in the United States with its own special glories. My husband and I are so pleased to live in Omaha, and to travel around the state. I have other short pieces about Nebraska adventures on my own website, meredithannfuller.com. I will share those and future ones on Nebraska Rural Living, which I so appreciate.


    I am so fortunate to be aquatinted with the body behind those words!! Keep travelin!! Send Jim to more camps😉👍😘😘can’t wait for the next blog.

    • Well, fellow traveler, fellow explorer and keen observer, a down to earth woman with a big sky mind–a Nebraskan–lucky me to have you in the wagon train. This spring and summer, let’s definitely do some nosing around together, on the trail of corn smut!

  6. Ernest Cruz says:

    Several times I have asked Jim if he and you miss Boston and its environs. I keep thinking he will say, “Yes, and what are Meredith and I doing in Omaha.” You see, I have this admiration for the east coast, specially Boston – urbane and cosmopolitan. But each time I hear how wonderful you and he feel here.

    I am reminded through your descriptive writing of what grand vistas abound in this area and what interesting people populate it. Viewed through your eyes and through your filters, this is a place you can indeed call home.

    • Oh Ernie, thank you for your openness to our experience as newcomers. Thank you for taking the time to post so generously. I know that for a newcomer, vs a person here for decades, the city has a different meaning, less karmic loading. But I also find Nebraskans who do adore the landscape, and citizens of Omaha who thrive here.

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