The older I get, the more beautiful this place gets. Unlike myself, Iowa is a fine wine. I don't know how I missed it for two decades, but I managed. When I think about writing about my hometown, inevitably the first sentence is always something like, "I picture it in shades of brown and gray...
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Iowa, I'm sorry.
For years I've written off your people, cursed your winter-torn roads, pitied your empty shopping malls, lamented your land locked-ness, and readily given you the title of "The Land of Missed Opportunity." I made up my mind that you had nothing to offer me; you and I, we simply wanted different things. But for years, it turns out I was wrong.