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The air of a small town can never be mistaken. It is not simply oxygen that fills the lungs of the visitors and inhabitants of the town, but a mixture of all things that are certain. Certainty can be changed, interpreted in many different ways depending on the person to whom you are speaking with; yet it is always the same in a tiny village-like life. The faces that one sees on the streets, in the assorted shops, in cars and on bicycles, they are familiar. In a way, they are part of a group, a family that will always be intact. If, by chance, a member of the community manages to escape the somewhat droll life of a small town child, they will always admire and feel appreciative of the values they have learned there. They will always remember the faces of their family.
There are many assortments of small towns. A "small town," to some, may be a town of 5,000 people living in high-class homes with beautiful lawns where their children play, running around in the freshly mown grass with their water guns and fancy play sets. A "small town," to some, may be a village of 100 with shabby shacks that are, to most, looked down upon with miniscule lawns filled with dying grass while the children play in the streets with a bat and a ball. All the neighborhood children gathered and split into teams to play a crude game of baseball. Whatever the setting, whatever the belief, a small town is a picturesque vision of camaraderie and community.
There is a town in central Iowa, a small town by all means, that goes by the simple name of Dayton. Dayton, Iowa is in every sense of the word magnificent. It is comprised of mainly homes in all shapes and sizes, every color and hue. The lawns are not all perfectly mowed, not all homes are completely painted. In fact, there are several homes that are not painted at all. There are some, on the part of town that the inhabitants consider "downtown," that have various pieces of furniture in the overgrown grass, odd pieces of plywood thrown here and there to accent the hideousness of the place. Yet, there are some houses that one must simply stop and admire the sheer beauty of the home.
Dayton is a marvel. Every year the town hosts a Labor Day celebration that brings many people from far and near into the small town for the carnival, the parade, and the main attraction; the Rodeo. Yes, Dayton, like many towns in Iowa, displays the Rodeo with pride, the very signs that shine at every entrance to the metropolis wear a cowboy on his bucking horse, staying on with ease. The Rodeo Grounds become the focal point of Dayton during the Labor Day weekend, although it is certainly not the reason for Dayton's beautiful reputation.
The rainbow of personalities that flood Dayton is intoxicating. From the educated, flamboyant ex-English teacher whom enjoys a glass of wine in her gazebo in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings while she ponders what her next opinion column in the newspaper for the small town shall be about to the Arizona native bar owner who juggles his time between working at the bar and keeping his step-children (who have a horrid reputation for smoking marijuana and sleeping with all of the resident "studs") out of trouble with the town sheriff, who is quite the character himself. An army man who has been nicknamed "Rambo" by the residential teenagers, the cop of Dayton is widely know as a great man who is strict, yet as friendly as can be. Unfortunately, he is famously known for showing his strict side a considerable amount more than his lovable side, Rambo is a man that most attempt to avoid.
The adolescents who live in and around Dayton attend the school district of Southeast-Webster Grand, a highly recognized school for many reasons. The high school, noted for athletes both male and female, art students who have talent incomprehensible, and drama students that have learned from the best; the ex-English teacher who is most likely sitting in her chair now, a wine glass in hand, enjoying the company of her best friend, the Algebra teacher for Southeast-Webster Grand and a well liked man. Southeast-Webster Grand, getting the name from the joining of Southeast-Webster and the Grand schools in 2002, is an excellent school that has buildings in Burnside, Boxholm, and the wonderful Dayton.
Due to the elementary school stationed in the center of Dayton, the sounds of laughing children during their recesses fills the air of Dayton, adding to the flavor of the air that is breathed. Those who live next to, across from, behind, or anywhere within the surrounding blocks of the elementary school can simply look out their window, see the children, and address them by name. It is in no way odd or creepy that these adults know so much of the young children that play only yards away from them, for everyone in Dayton knows everyone else, it is just a way of life. There is no questions such as "Who is that?" or "I wonder who that could be." in Dayton, the name of a passerby or a new inhabitant across the street is common knowledge, the town is too small for any type of secrets.
Unfortunately, this disheartening fact is the downfall of many reputations in Dayton, Iowa. There have been some who cannot bear the thought of their neighbors knowing the intimate details of their lives, and therefore, have moved out of Dayton. It is a sad day in the small town when a familiar face is replaced with a new one, but yet, the people who live in the either beautiful or shabby homes in Dayton find it invigorating to see a new victim who, similarly to themselves, will succumb to the bitter sweet melody that is the Dayton lifestyle. Eventually.
On the far end of town, away from main street that leads to the grocery store, the pharmacy, the small doctors office; away from the school, the laughing children, the whistles of school teachers; away from the hustle and bustle of the Rodeo Grounds; away from the cheering crowd surrounding the baseball diamond, there is a house. This house, a two story, cream colored little thing in front of which two plain cars sit, is the home of the Van Alders family. Old Mrs. Van Alders, a grandmother with life in her yet, spends her days sitting on a rocking chair on their wrap-around porch, watching as the people ride by on bicycles, as her neighbors tend to their gardens. She waves at them, smiles kindly and nods to those who acknowledge her, Mrs. Van Alders has a deep respect for life and youth. She adores them both.
Mr. Van Alders had passed years before his grandchildren were born, it was regrettable that he never had the joy of holding his three grandsons and four granddaughters in his arms. Pictures of him filled the walls in the dining room of Mrs. Van Alders home, accompanied by the many pictures of her children and grandchildren. The old woman rarely spent time inside, however. Her passion resided in the garden to her right as she sat on the porch, her eyes lingering on the beautiful tiger lilies and the hostas that surrounded the small, circular garden. She sighed, the blanket on her lap felt soft against her tired, wrinkled hands. She loved that garden as if it held a life force she would never understand.
Just down the road from Mrs. Van Alders, there is a larger home of the deepest blue, a sea home that would bring tears to any old fisherman's eye. Of course, this house was built quite recently, most of the neighbors could recall the booms and bangs of the workers who slaved away to create such a marvelous home. A family of four lived in it now, the typical family that enjoyed spending time with one another. The daughter, a sophomore at Southeast-Webster Grand was popular, her dark brown curls and perfect body made it difficult for her not to be immediately adored by anyone who set eyes on her. The son, a second grader with strikingly blond hair, was a rowdy boy who loved to play outside. He had an immense amount of energy that his parents, a retired military man and a vocal teacher, struggled to keep up with. The two eldest kids, another daughter and another son, had left the household to aspire to their own dreams, but returned to the home frequently. They seemed to fit perfectly into the folds of every day life in Dayton.
From the streets of Dayton, whether it be night or day, the sounds of various things ring above any force of nature. It was truth that Lenny Carmichael had stumbled out of the Frontier Lounge on main street during a horrible thunder storm, screaming towards the heavens that nothing would stop him from riding his motorcycle while intoxicated. The story differs from man to man, some recalling him being struck by lightning at the very end of his sentence; some telling that he hopped onto his bike and drove off nobly, only to crash into the bank from hydroplaning on the inch high water piling on the streets. It was common knowledge, however, that Lenny did not make it through the night without visiting the ER. Unfortunately, the citizens of Dayton have never know the facts of that fourth of July night, for Lenny Carmichael cannot remember a thing.
Not far from the Frontier Lounge, just down the hill and to he left of the Co-Op, the once mighty dam of Dayton lays in rubble. Now a waterfall coming down from Lake Ole, the dam has become the habitat of bored teenagers looking for a good time. If one should look past he shrubbery on the top of the hill, they would find a hidden path o a cement slab that sits directly on the river, feet away from the bottom of the waterfall itself.
Between the waterfall and the slab, there sit six cement blocks in the middle of the water. The blocks are tall, somewhat narrow structures the teenage boys feel the need to brave in order to impress the many young women watching. It was here that the youngest of the Yef brothers fell into he murky water in front of a group of girls; they all laughed at him and left immediately, save for one. Ivory Shay stayed to help him out of the water, his normally curly head of hair plastered to he side of his face. He smiled at her, she smiled back at him. It was at that moment hat the youngest Yef brother claims he knew he would be with Ivory for the rest of his life. They shared their first kiss on that summer afternoon.
Dayton, being a town that has wrongfully been denied of the attention it truly deserves, has lived in peace for many years. The residents, for the most part, get along with each other and live together in a companionship inexplicable to anyone outside of the small community. Whether or not the people living in this village-like town will admit it, they are a closely knit society that is filled with do-gooders and trouble makers alike.
For example, many of the citizens have seen the elderly man whom lives three blocks from the baseball diamond in a disgusting, metal mobile home around town on his motorized wheelchair. His long, grey hair is covered by a cowboy style hat, his long silver beard runs down the length of his button down shirt and ends at the very tips of his red suspenders.
Some say that he has nothing to do but ride around the streets of Dayton all day; that he means no harm. Others believe that he is roaming the streets only to find young girls to hit on. There is truth to both opinions, but nevertheless, he has done nothing to cross the line yet.
His odd quirks and curious behaviors have earned him the nickname "Weird Beard" to the people of Dayton; yet nobody dare refer to him in such a way to his face. Weird Beard lives having no knowledge of his hidden nickname.
The most heavenly of the do-gooders being Nyxon Tucker, the son of one Pastor Tucker. Nyxon, a well rounded boy involved in many extracurricular activities, was a senior at Southeast Webster-Grand high school in 2010. Taking full advantage of the charter school program there, Nyxon took many college classes centering around medicinal practices. He planned on attending a higher level college to complete his medical training until he reached his goal of being either a surgeon or administrator of the hospital located in Ames, Iowa. Nyxon graduated with highest honors, being Student Body President, Valedictorian, and the highest rank student in his class. Nyxon now lives at home with his father and mother in a brick house located west of the church where his father works.
Nyxon enjoyed the simple things in life. He was happy with sitting on his porch, like his surrounding neighbors, a bowl of Original Chex Mix in his lap and a 52 ounce fountain drink from the gas station a block from his house. Summer time was when he was most comfortable, the stress of grades and athletic programs lifted from his shoulders, Nyxon had plenty of time to relax. He sipped at his blend of assorted sodas absentmindedly, taking a handful of Chex Mix in his hand while waving to Mr. Carlson across the street who tended his shrubs as he did every Monday afternoon. It was sprinkling, the air around Nyxon thick and humid. The day couldn't have gone better for Nyxon.
After waiting in anticipation for months, Nyxon had finally received a request from the University of Iowa, they wanted him as badly as he wanted them. He planned on filling out an application as soon as possible, confirming that he would indeed be a Hawkeye that coming fall. He was elated.
He rocked on the chair that was placed on his wooden porch, crunching the snack with his teeth while fiddling with the chip in the arm of the chair. Nyxon could hear the neighbors conversation clearly; it was no surprise to him that they were talking so loudly. In Dayton, the gossip of neighbors was often heard during an eavesdropping session, anyway. If it was worth talking about, the ladies of the town would spread it as fast as light. Nyxon laughed to himself silently to hear their gasps and awed voices. Ashen had come back to town.
It was a surprise to hear that Ashen Van Alders had chosen to come and visit her grandmother for the third year in a row. Dayton had chewed her up and spit her out with no remorse whatsoever, Ashen simply wasn't the type of person with the credentials necessary to survive in Dayton. Nyxon knew little about her besides that which he heard from the whispers and rumors. He knew for fact that she was Mrs. Van Alders' granddaughter, that she lived in a large town in Maine with her father whom had full custody after a brutal divorce. Ashen's mother was absent in her life, or so the kids at school had said. In Nyxon's opinion, however, Ashen seemed to have grown into a good enough young woman despite the hardships she had faced the short amount of time she had been on Earth.
The poor thing had gone through quite the ordeal last summer. Nyxon listened as the women across the lawn as they recalled the events that had caused most of the town to hate, even loathe, Ashen Van Alders. It was ridiculous to Nyxon that they should still hold a grudge against the 18 year old girl, after all, it had been an accident. No one would purposely hit a child on a bicycle with a hefty SUV. Certainly not in Dayton.
Dayton was a peaceful place, a place where most of the bad things that happened there revolved around a tree branch falling during a storm, narrowly missing a roof and miraculously not damaging the yard at all. Nyxon waved graciously as Weird Beard rode past.
Ashen Van Alders. Nyxon had never actually spoken to the prodigal child, but looked forward to finally meeting her this summer before shipping off for college in the fall. She rarely attended church, but when she had, Nyxon had noticed her strikingly blonde hair the moment she walked through the arched doors. She was a tall girl, tanned slightly from the sun, the freckles on her face giving her a friendly look to her. She wore loose clothing that somehow managed to make her look the slimmest woman in all of Dayton, definitely the most alluring. She had long legs, accentuated by the high heels she was usually spotted wearing. She was a willing participant of the "skinny jean" trend, many of the local men thanked her for that silently. Her beautiful body was the talk of the town before the incident.
Nyxon planned to talk to her during church. He was most comfortable there, hands down, and she would have no choice but to carry a decent conversation with him if she had hopes of ever being accepted back into the swing of things around Dayton. What a splash they would create. A beautiful outsider from a far away land talking to the star football, soccer, track, and wrestling player, pastor's son, and most adored man of Dayton. It would place her back into the light side of Dayton conversations, perhaps he could help her back into the graces of some of the citizens there.
Mrs. Van Alders frequently attended the Wednesday sermon, her insanely purple and red hats were the center of attention during the semi-casual gathering of Christian elites. Nyxon volunteered every Wednesday to sit beside her, listening to stories she had told him thousands of times with a grace and interest that he faked perfectly. He nodded, smiled, and laughed at all the appropriate times, Mrs. Van Alders was one of Nyxon's most dedicated admirers. Surely she would bring Ashen to meet him, how could she not? This was the first year Nyxon was around while Ashen was for an extended period of time.
A pair of local girls walked by, waving and giggling at Nyxon who waved back, smiling his special smile and saying hello briefly as the girls walked by. They were the 2010-2011 seniors, Nyxon noticed, girls he had been on the improv speech team with. Their names; Nyxon searched his mind as he watched them walk down the block. He could picture them in speech practices with him, being silly with him, flirting with him… What were their names?
Veronica, maybe. Nyxon thought, throwing another handful of Chex Mix into his mouth. Perhaps Staci.
The one thing blocking his mind, the sweetest thing that he could possibly imagine, blocked their names from him for some reason. He would remember them at different time, where it meant nothing to him and would be completely useless. "Oh well." he muttered to himself while he stood, thinking of the gorgeous Iowa application that sat on his kitchen table. Nyxon walked inside the door to relieve his mind, to fill out the single most important thing he had ever had. This packet of paper was easily the key to his future. Nyxon shut the door behind him without a second thought of the two girls who had just walked by.