When I was a kid in northwest Iowa, Sioux City was big. Really big. Really, really big. It was the center of civilization and all things phantasmagorical, a legendary place we visited a few times a year for gala events such as the Shrine Circus and the debuts of wholesome movie debuts including Jungle Book, The Sound of Music, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, and Mary Poppins.
Every childhood trip to Sioux City commenced with Dad singing his rendition of the old song, Sioux City Sue and the rest of us chiming in. He only knew the first few lines – “Five foot two; eyes of blue; she’s my sweet Sioux City Sue; Has anybody seen my gal?” – so the concert didn’t last long.
Before the last note died away, he launched into his standard commentary about Sioux City being a rough town, like river towns tend to be. “So you kids stay close when we go shopping.” Dad would wink. “Don’t wander off. Got that?”
All those memories came flooding back last weekend when I drove to Sioux City to leave complimentary copies of my book at hospital chaplains’ offices. On the way, I passed the McDonald’s where I tasted my first hamburger. I drove by Stone Park, where we used to picnic with my uncle and aunt’s family.
To be honest, the town seemed a whole lot smaller than I remembered it. The streets weren’t hard to navigate, and I wondered why my mom always got so tense driving around the tiny city.
Only the hills were as big as I remembered them, maybe even a little bigger. The walk from my car in the parking lot to the hospital’s main entrance was quite vertical. Good exercise, but it’s hard to make a good impression on strangers when huffing and puffing, all red-faced and sweaty. Still, it was good to visit Sioux City again, the exciting Mecca of my childhood.
I drove back to Le Mars, humming Sioux City Sue and thinking about my dad. What I wouldn’t give to sing with him one more time.
