There’s Always a Place
Elsie Eiler is, at 87, the oldest citizen of Monowi, a town in Nebraska. It’s because she’s its only resident that doubles as the local mayor, librarian and owner of the only operating bar, The Monowi Tavern. You might say she’s a minor celebrity because her tavern has become a beloved destination for visitors in the area, including her friends and acquaintances. The internet is plastered with photos and stories of her. It almost resembles a movie come to life because Elsie seems to be a charming old lady with a welcoming demeanor.
It’s simply too heartwarming to be true. Until it hits you that it’s not fiction and the city is on the map only because she’s paying to keep all of its four streetlights on during the night. She’s no longer in the prime of her life and an uncertain future would be good news for the town.
Or hamlet, which might be more appropriate. What’s certain is that Elsie’s death will send Monowi into the dustbin of history unless the city attracts new residents. Judging by the admiration she’s enjoying you couldn’t compare her to an abandoned dog. In fact, the guestbook at her tavern must be full by now. The town library is dedicated to her late husband. Coping with loss of a loved one is hard on its own, and it’s even more difficult if you’re on your own.
If those walls could talk, they’d undoubtedly have a lot to say about the history of this place. She has been running it for more than 50 years and her burgers have received universal praise. Though that’s hardly the point. It’s about keeping the flame burning until the last strip of wax melts down. Owning an entire town sounds pretty cool in theory and Elsie gives a whole new dimension to the concept of multitasking. Even time has a gentler touch here than in big cities with millions of people. It’s only the clock on her wall that’s successfully keeping up with the rest of America.
Monowi’s mayor is a busy woman according to her own admission. Even the village my parents come from boasts a big population compared to this. Hence it’s a great test of how much introspection we can endure and the boundaries of your needs and social circles.
A solitary confinement by definition is being restricted to a singular, enclosed space for extended periods of time. There’s only space for you and your thoughts which in itself is already overcrowded. Because when you end up in there, overthinking is the only way to keep your mind from driving off the rails. Or at least until you start talking to the walls since there’s no one else to talk to.
This tiny town is no prison cell, rather an embodiment of smalltown America that’s always behind the glittery curtain of cosmopolitan hubs like New York and even further from the focus of politics in Washington. It’s the model victim of the so-called cultural war where hinterland communities were culturally and economically left for dead. No wonder the mayor is a Republican.
The ascent of people like Trump put people and places like these back into the headlines, who felt betrayed by the left-wing elites. I’m not familiar enough with Elsie to guess if she’s got a MAGA hat somewhere or not. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. What difference does it make? There’s currently no one who could challenge her. She might gladly let someone else take care of politics and focus on the tavern but at least for now that’s in the realm of science fiction.
Even the derelict building of the motorcycle club Monowi Nite Owls next door suggests the sad state of local affairs. Started in 1970s, there’s been no record of activities since 2009. The world is full of places with similar destinies. In Europe, there are initiatives of rebuilding and revival of abandoned communities.
An effort to influence the increasing devastation by white plague, both by the public and private sector. Almost 3000 villages in Spain are up for sale. Salto de Castro was on sale for 260 000 Euros which is the average price of a one-bedroom apartment in cities like Barcelona. In many cases they attract tourism but due to a combination of negative circumstances, some of these fail to materialize and those ghost towns get reduced to a photo opportunity for your Instagram feed.
Though it’s unlikely that Monowi is going to escape the same destiny the question remains if there will be anyone willing to continue Elsie’s work and keep the streetlights working. Even if she wanted to, who knows if there would be any prospective buyers since it’s just one of many examples of towns drained of almost all signs of life.
Young people chase job opportunities in bigger cities, there’s hardly any temptation to leave the house after work since social life is reduced to a church and a bar or two. That makes the small library managed by Elsie even more precious. But it must be frustrating to be its only member as well. There’s always reason for hope. A place where you keep returning because its history is densely entangled with your own. She must be aware of it too. Nothing is in vain, you just need time to see it.
The American artist Edward Hopper created the painting Gas in 1940. He’s the quintessential genius whose work celebrates a vision of America that still lives in towns like Monowi. In the painting, we see a lonely gas station next to a countryside road. We see a man, presumably the clerk, next to one of the three pumps. There’s the absurd contrast between the logo with the red, winged horse and the deflated mood of the place lit from the side, long shadows spilling over the asphalt. The dense forest in the background doesn’t suggest any signs of civilisation behind it. Some would say, even god himself long since left here, never to return.
Yet the clerk is still there, doing his job. His scope of responsibilities is certainly nowhere near those of Elsie but as long as the road is there, there will be a need for gas too. Which means someone needs to be there in charge. I just wouldn’t expect a guestbook. A selection of beer and mints might be a good guess.
It’s a comfort that nothing truly disappears. If anything, it’s more like Snow White. Sleeping until someone decides to wake it up. But small towns on the verge of extinction need something more than true love’s kiss. No amount of fairy godmothers can shake them into a prosperous future. Unless they live in the castle on Capitol Hill. But for a strategy like that to succeed, the Washington fairies will have to do better. If they don’t, an another George Santos will soon be on its way to Congress.
He might come up with a story of running an entire city administration plus public institutions all by himself. Only to turn out to be a place like the one in Nebraska. There’s only one person who can claim that without being accused of fraud or fabrication. But it seems to me she’d feel much more comfortable in her small town tavern than in Washington.
Having to choose between a place full of wealthy professional liars and one where everyone knows your name is a no-brainer. If you wonder why, it’s because the latter have a much better criteria when it comes to admission policy. The beer is cold and the burgers are tasty. No need to lie. It’s a place like this where intellectual cynicism, urban depression and political hypocrisy come to die.
