Ask me why I picked up a collection of writings from an area I've got nothing in common with: I don't know. Maybe there's something as exotic about Iowa as there is about China. After all, they're both about as far from my home!

But more likely, it was curiosity: what would a regional almanac contain? What sort of things would people write? What are their lives like, and what things do they notice? For all that I spent days trying to remember the word "Wapsipinicon" (and half the time thinking of it as "Wapsicon"), what I read felt half-familiar. And half-foreign, of course.

The "Alamanac" is 100% what I'd assumed it would be. It's modest, local, well-written, waxing poetic, nostalgic, personal. Its contributors seem to be older rather than younger, but that's not very surprising.

Sometimes, concerns are addressed: the high cost of weddings, the authorities shrugging in the face of ecological issues in their area, how one spends Christmas when one is alone, the bad treatment of (or lack of treatment of) those who are mentally ill, letting go of shame to discover joy.

Often, people are remembered: rarely, those who left a mark in history (Paul Engle, director of a Writer's Workshop; incidentally, that section references a Romanian writer who died in the '77 earthquake in Bucharest, holding a manuscript about Iowa - I couldn't find more details, but what a surprise. I was expecting no Romanians in this book.). More commonly those remembered are regular people who stood out to those close to them: an old woman who painted her home; a TV repairman who helped kids with math homework and who kept an eye on international politics; two women who photographed old houses of what they believed was historical value that would soon be torn down.

There's much said about the sky and the land, about a nostalgia for a world and a community that no longer exist, about the changing world, about the (occasional) jealousy of those who live in grander places, about the small issues concerning the community. Religion is rarely addressed directly, but it forms a visible thread; it's part of people's lives.

As an outsider, I recognized some of the ethos of small communities and of longing for past, better times that people here have. I wonder if it's a consequence of large cities hogging novelty and progress through sheer force of numbers.

Of all things, I found it hard to wrap my head around the idea of towns. Of course, one watches Hollywood productions and kind of understands what a town is. Sort of. Of course, one doesn't necessarily get it. (Traveling across mentioned towns with Google Maps only intensified the feeling. Grids! Lawns! No private yards! What is this? Why?) The American town is as foreign to me as baseball: I kind of get that it's a thing, but the rules elude me. Tell me "this place has a population of 351 people" (I'm thinking of Cumberland, Iowa) and I'll be expecting a scattered handful of houses, chickens roaming free, maybe a few pigs, haystacks, a cow or several. None of that appeared in my strolls on Google Maps!

As nostalgia was a theme and the past was often referenced, I found myself reading in silent expectation. But the nostalgia was personal. It stretched to the natural limits of one's own childhood: the late 1920's, in an article from 1988, although that childhood came (naturally) later for others. People left Iowa behind to study or work elsewhere, and then returned.

Sometimes, the nostalgia stretched back a bit further than that: people taming the wild prairie, making room for their homes. I waited, expectant, wondering if it would be addressed.

Finally, one author ended my waiting and brought up the subject: Iowa's past. Not the recent past of the mid or even early 2oth century, but the older past. The thorny past. The one where there used to be Natives there - forgotten now. They were driven back, sometimes slaughtered. There used to be French immigrants around the area, too (what happened to them? it's not mentioned). This, the author of the article says, is information that isn't taught in schools, that's harder to come across.

Nonetheless, I couldn't help but be surprised at how absent it is from the public consciousness. This really helps with understanding the complaints of minorities in the US today, though I guess I understand how it wouldn't be in people's minds much. I wonder what it's like, for history to be remembered so short and so peaceful.

The hardest thing for me to appreciate in the volume were the poems (two, unless my memory fails me). Hardly a deal-breaker, considering they're a very small part of the volume, but I feel like I'm missing context. The first is about a poor young man asking someone to marry him, I think. This takes place in 1850, and I'm not sure in what way the year is significant, or the name of Amos Johnson. The second is a poem about the Wapsipinicon River that's very geographical.

I guess an almanac such as this one, so intimate and personal, can only be received on a personal level (unless you're doing research; in that case, I assume it's a gold mine). It's a glimpse of a small world somewhere, a thing to ponder. I'm sure it's more personally relevant to Iowans - but it's not not relevant to me.

I would like to think NetGalley and the publisher for providing me with a free ARC in exchange for an honest review.

A wonderful look at a snapshot of life spanning 30 years of publications. I enjoy reading these stories centered around a different kind of lifestyle and time. We've travelled so many BIG places but the smaller ones are the best. This almanac has earned a space next to others I've collected and shared over the years. Read it, share it.