I love traveling to America’s Midwest. Disparaged by some as “flyover country,” where there is ostensibly little to see but farmland and silos, I see its beauty. Yes, there is no paucity of corn, soybeans, or countless acres of agricultural cultivation; no want of barns, tractors, irrigation pumps; no shortage of silos and storage bins. But it is beautiful to me each time I am here, even in winter. Maybe it is because God created in me a love of rural life with its little Mom & Pop stores, bait-n-tackle shops, groceries where the lady behind the bakery counter knows your face and even your name.

Here’s an example of what I mean: I was in a local grocery here to purchase donuts for the soldiers I’m teaching this week. The guys all knew of this local establishment, and it came highly recommended. So, during lunch, I drove to the store, walked back to the bakery section, asked the friendly lady in the hairnet who was putting frosting on cakes she had baked, “Ma’am, good afternoon. I’d like to see if I can order a couple dozen donuts for my guys tomorrow morning and pick them up at say, 0700, when you guys open, please. Maybe a dozen glazed and a dozen chocolate. May I do that?”

“Sure,” she said. “Let me just check with my staff and see if that works.” She disappeared behind the door for a moment and then returned. “No problem,” she said. “I just need your name and phone number.”

I provided both pieces of information. I pointed to my surname on my uniform and gave her my first name, along with my cell number, and asked a couple of other questions. “May I pay you now?”

“Just wait till tomorrow, hon, if that works.”

“Sure,” I said. “Whatever’s best for you guys. 0700 okay, then?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

“Seven a.m. okay, then?” I asked, remembering I was talking to a civilian.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “And thank you for your service.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said.

I turned to walk out, and an elderly woman was behind me at the bakery counter. She had her spotted hands upon the yellow plastic bar of her shopping cart (what we call a buggy, in my neck of the woods). “Thank you for your service,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said.

As I flew into Indianapolis, it was snowing lightly. This was my view from my seat as we descended into Indy:

As I drove towards where my fellow soldiers were and where I’d be conducting the training, I drove across one of the local rivers:

A couple of one-year-old whitetails were browsing in the winter landscape:

It may be flyover country to some, but I think it’s beautiful. Each landscape has its own beauty, I think. Deserts were ugly until I was in them; swamps can be brutal in the humid summers down South, but there’s nothing like the fecund mystery of a swamp in spring with its gators and herons and the smell of the good earth, etc. Each place has its own beauty. This week it’s the Midwest and its friendly folks.