When friends asked earlier this summer where two other family members and I were going for vacation, I took some glee in answering: Des Moines. Not bothering to disguise, much less suppress, East Coast snobbery, they would almost invariably guffaw and sputter incredulously: Why?
At the risk of violating the unspoken rules governing attitudes of regional superiority, let me confess ─ I like Des Moines. Beyond that, I like the state of Iowa which that city serves as capital.
This I affirm without even being a candidate for president. When I behold prominent Democrats and ambitious Republicans swarming around the cornfields, I reflect on how transient and forced their feelings for Iowa are. Unlike me, they will soon shift their affections to New Hampshire and other early-primary states.
But my enjoyment of Iowa will continue. Vacation days there will continue to provide entertainment of a high order. Every time the sight of this land appears in the airplane window, I feel thankful to be back among the welcoming people who live in middle America.
If this approach seems irrational, let me ground it in two realities. Friendship and fine art are what primarily attract me to Des Moines.
Nick, my friend of some four decades, is a native of that city. As a gracious host, he has the know-how to give his guests an insider’s appreciation of the place. He can tell you all about the city squares and their chief buildings, and escort you to the hidden enclaves where the local nabobs live.
As a former priest of the Catholic diocese there, Nick can also provide the lowdown on the local ecclesiastical situation. Of course, you would have to share my weird tastes to be interested in this kind of news. But, you still might find human interest in some of his tales of local clergy.
While still a seminarian, Nick looked to be in line for some form of preferment. For a time, it looked, for all the world, as if he could be sent to Rome for theological study and later to become a monsignor, or even a bishop. At least, I tell him this.
That situation resulted from him having worked for the then reigning bishop, Edward Daly. When still a schoolboy, Nick worked on the episcopal grounds, ran errands, and served as the bishop’s chauffeur.
That preferment, however, came to a tragic end in 1964 on the tarmac of Leonardo da Vinci airport in Rome. There Bishop Daly sat in a Boeing 707 with a priest assistant when it veered off the runway and crashed into an earthmover, killing the two clerics and dozens of the other passengers.
A year later, Nick recalls, the diocese of Des Moines received in the mail a glass eye, a grisly relic of the bishop’s companion.
Besides friendship, opera also attracts me to Des Moines. Again, friends show themselves aghast at my choice of musical venue. My obvious addiction to this art-form seems to them a weak excuse for traveling over almost half the country to hear people sing.
But they do not know about the pleasures provided by the Des Moines Metro Opera Company. After many hearings, I consider it one of the finest regional opera companies in America, well worth the trip.
This year’s performances on three weekend days included Britten’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, Bizet’s Carmen, and Verdi’s Otello. The company likes to program each summer a contemporary work, a warhorse, and a challenging classic. This season’s trio admirably filled that scheme.
A characteristic feature of DMMO performances is their intimacy. The theater seats only some 500 people, and virtually every seat affords you a fine view of the players. That makes it easy to identify with the action, even when you read the supertitles above the stage.
And after each performance, the singers come to the lobby where they are available for conversation and photo taking. To me, it’s a rare pleasure to talk with people, many of them young and aspiring talents, about their work. We asked Desdemona, for example, about the challenges of singing with her head forced back from the bed almost to the floor while her husband Otello strangled her. Not easy!
By now, Nick has taken me to some twenty operas, all of them worth attending. This guy from Boston has become almost an annual fixture as I absorb the pleasures of seeing a wide array of heroes, heroines, and villains. In imagination, these figures people my inner world as I recall the moments of ecstasy and awe-full tragedy.
No, I have not been to Paris this summer, nor Rome. Admittedly, the cuisine is usually better in both sites than in Des Moines. Friendship and opera, however, make Iowa rank high for me. Yes, I have lost points from the literati back home. But what’s wrong with appearing naïve and simple-minded?
Richard Griffin