A Ramble Around the Midwest
When any locals needed help, they contacted Rocky Germain. I read that sentence in a newspaper article and thought one would never find anyone in England with that name. It could only be a name found (if you happened to be looking for a name), in America – the USA that is, not South America. Although I’ll bet there aren’t many people called Rocky Germain there either. I’m rambling. I do that when I start a story.
I saw that newspaper article when I was travelling in the Midwest. I haven’t the foggiest what Midwest means. In England, “the west” is either the entire west of the country or possibly the west coast, or maybe “the west” which prefixes ceremonial or metropolitan counties, such as West Sussex, or West Yorkshire.
If an English person were asked where our Midwest was, they’d know the person who asked was probably American. I’m not convinced that all, or even most Americans could accurately say what, or where their Midwest is. Unless they teach geography then perhaps they could. And, why don’t they have a mid-east or mid-north or mid-south? Why pick on the west?
Anyway, I looked up the Midwest to see where it is. It’s not one place. It’s dozens of places from Illinois to Oklahoma and possibly even further afield than that. Plus, it isn’t just geographical; it’s cultural and industrial too. (Apparently.)
What started this? Oh yes. Rocky Germain. I wonder if he originated in the Midwest? You couldn’t tell by his name. In England you can often tell where someone is from by their name. For instance, my grandfather’s last name was Ramsden. I can tell you this for a fact – there aren’t many people called Ramsden in Surrey or Cornwall. Mostly they come from the north of England – West Yorkshire (funnily enough), or Lancashire which has a west, and an east and north and a south too. But we don’t go on about it in Lancashire.
That’s reminded me of another thing about Americans; a lot of them think that the whole of the UK is called England. It drives people from Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales crackers. Those are countries in their own right, separate from England. Well, not exactly separate as they share the same land mass, (apart from Northern Ireland which is in the Irish Sea). But, it’s attached to the Republic of Ireland which is one island but divided. That aside, Northern Ireland is definitely British – not English but British. That’s all less confusing than trying to get your head around the American Midwest. That reminds me, I still haven’t made my main point about Rocky Germain. I wonder – does Germain have anything to do with Germany?
No is the answer. I looked it up and Germain has French roots. (Probably branches too by now). Maybe Rocky’s family come from New Orleans? French people started shoving off from France to that city in the eighteenth century. Must have been treacherous 300 years ago – crossing oceans to get to a new country. Those French emigrants must have been tough. I can’t say whether Rocky Germain was tough. It was implied in the newspaper article that he was helpful. But tough, to me, means gritty, which doesn’t equate with helpful. Now, that does bring me to my real point which is that the newspaper made Rocky sound fantastic. However, unsurprisingly, that is inaccurate. Newspapers are notorious for mucking about with the truth or even straightforward information.
I was visiting Lanesboro, Minnesota when I read that article. Lanesboro’s a teeny, tiny, pretty place. Of course it’s in the Midwest. (Otherwise I wouldn’t have been talking about the Midwest) I was on a cycling trip and had cycled along the banks of the river there and happened to see a sign pointing up a track. It was hand-painted and it said – Rocky Germain – Chickens for Sale, and it had a hand-painted picture of a chicken. Not a great painting, but you could tell it was a chicken, or possibly a turkey. Anyway, not having any reason to purchase a chicken, I carried on cycling whilst thinking what a coincidence that I’d read his name in the newspaper and there he was on a sign. About a mile further on, I hit a rock on the path and came off my bike. Its front wheel buckled and so I had to carry it. But, I’d seen that sign for Rocky Germain’s chickens, so I trekked back and knocked on his door.
A biggish chap with a red beard opened it. He looked friendly. So, I smiled and said “hi”. Normally, I would have said “hello” but in Rome, etc. He said “yea” with a distinct question mark behind the word. So, being English and brought up to be polite, I said I was sorry to bother him, but I’d had trouble with my bike. He grunted and said “yea” again. I wondered whether he might be kind enough to lend a hand with it, or if I might leave it with him, you know, until I could bring a spare wheel and fix it. He stared at me as though I’d spoken in a foreign language. (To some Americans, English is a foreign language – when it comes to speaking English it is.) Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. I was feeling uncomfortable with the chap. Then he told me in no uncertain terms that he sold chickens and wasn’t a bike mechanic or storage unit. That was when he shut the door in my face. I could have sworn that the newspaper article said that when anyone in town needed help, they contacted Rocky Germain. Perhaps it was because I was only visiting which caused the problem?
Whatever, I’ve been haunted by the whole business ever since – not by Rocky himself, but by the thought that a man can be helpful in print and a complete ass in person.
Norma is a UK‑based writer whose fiction and essays focus on the quiet dramas and comic misalignments of ordinary lives. Her work has appeared in several journals, and she is currently finishing a book about her father/not‑her‑father, exploring memory, identity, and the reckonings which follow.
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