Dear readers,
Wow, last week’s column sure hit a nerve. Maybe it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I guess in Shelbyville it was more like the stamp that sealed the envelope of frustration.
With construction clogging up north State Road 9 and folks fretting over The Strand Theatre possibly closing, losing the drive-thru mailbox was apparently more than this town could bear.
The convenience of curbside letter-drops behind the post office? Gone. Poof. Just like that. The town was on edge like a poorly balanced barstool down at Willie Farkle’s, just waiting to tip over. I guess my column did it.
Fearing the angry crowd might go postal (pun intended), I decided to make myself scarce. Sandy and I packed light, so light in fact, we didn’t even stop at Bonded for our usual road snacks of Choc-Ola and Moon Pies. A risky move, sure, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Instead of taking the interstate, we cruised down the artery of the heartland: State Road 31. Channeling our inner Bill Helbing, who swears by the backroads, we enjoyed the drive through Tipton and Kokomo. After four or five hours of wandering, we found ourselves in Holland, Michigan, where things got … suspiciously idyllic.
We couldn’t have stumbled into a more picturesque town. The welcome center gave me the lowdown.
A couple hundred years ago, a fellow from the Netherlands, Dr. Albertus C. Van Rallie, moved here with his family. Back then, it was pure wilderness, trees, dirt, and probably more trees.
But soon, other Dutch settlers followed, naming the place Holland as an homage to their homeland. Naturally, being Dutch, they also brought a windmill, wooden shoes, and thousands of tulips, just to drive the theme home.
Confused yet? Yeah, me too. I must have dozed off during Geography class.
People from France are French. People from England are English. People from Mexico are Mexican. So, why are folks from the Netherlands called Dutch? And why do they call their country Holland?
Someone, somewhere, was asleep at the branding meeting. Then again, in those olden days they probably didn’t have a public relations firm to help them with their brand like we did.
Instead of “Shelbyville, Next door. Next level.” there’s could have been “Holland, Next continent. New world.”
Anyway, the town is stunning. Tulips bloom on every corner, like a real-life postcard. The streets are bustling with smiling people, happily dancing in wooden shoes like they’re extras in a Broadway production of Dutch: The Musical.
Even the public parks are pristine with no litter, no chaos, and most impressively, no suspicious old men lurking in the shrubbery like in most American cities.
The place looks too good. Too perfect. If the clog-dancing performers turned out to be actors and the town itself was secretly a Disney attraction, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Holland, Michigan, might just be one of the last truly happy towns in America.
So, do they have a drive-thru mailbox at their post office? I didn’t ask.
I didn’t want to burst their bubble of happiness.
See you all next week, same Schwinn time, same Schwinn channel.
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