Long-delayed trip to Casey, Iowa
Sometimes what you think is the worst thing turns out to be OK
When people told me that life is a circle, I was often either too impatient or too young to appreciate it. But getting older means taking the long view. The circles become obvious. If you are lucky and stick around long enough, you will see a few of them up close.
That’s what happened to me last week.
Nearly 20 years ago I applied to be editorial page editor of the The Des Moines Register. I was in my mid-40s and anxious for a career challenge. The position was open during a presidential year, in a critical state with a robust opinion staff and a salary that was nearly double what I made at the midsized daily in Connecticut at which I worked.
It was irresistible. I liked Des Moines and thought the staff was terrific. Over the course of several interviews, I got to know the paper’s brilliant columnist, Rekha Basu, and a former columnist, Julie Gammack.
The job would require me to write a regular opinion column. During one interview I was asked what would be the topic of my first commentary. That was easy, I said. I got up and pointed at a dot on a wall map of Iowa, my finger landing on a town about 40 miles west of Des Moines. “I’m going to write about Casey, Iowa,” I said. Family lore said that my great-great-grandfather James Casey, an Irish immigrant who operated a railroad construction company, named the town while his crews laid down track.
The column idea may have helped seal the deal. I was offered the job and accepted. But the only person the move obviously benefited was me. Nobody in my family wanted to disappoint me, but nobody wanted to go. They were miserable and I knew if we moved it would be a hard road. I ended up turning down the job. And I never did make it to the town of Casey.
Several months later, a New York Times editor, whom I did not know well, asked me why I had turned down the job. (Journalists are inveterate gossips, and news of my acceptance, then turning down the position, spread fast in the industry.) I explained. She was deeply sympathetic. And 18 months later, she called me at work and said, “Maura, could you come to New York for lunch? I think I have a job for you.”
That’s how I went to work for The New York Times.
In the years that followed, I stayed in touch with the friends I had made in Des Moines, visiting Julie at her home in Florida and introducing Rekha to Pepe’s Pizza in New Haven when her son visited Yale.
And last week we all reunited at a wonderful Iowa writer’s conference that is truly Julie’s brainchild, held at rambling facilities on the shores of Lake Okoboji, a sparkling glacial lake similar to the Finger Lakes in New York.
Rekha picked me up at the Des Moines airport and the next day we drove the three hours to the conference. We hadn’t seen each other in years, but picked up seamlessly where we left off.
After a packed few days, I pointed to that same dot on the map once again, and asked, “Can we stop in Casey on the way back?” Of course.
Casey is one of the most common of Irish names, so I was not surprised to learn there are other towns in other states, including Kentucky, Arkansas, Alabama and Illinois with the same name. Most are small, but at a little less than 400, my family’s Iowa namesake is the smallest.
I expected no more than to pose under the town’s sign and go on my way. I was stunned to see a picture of Grandfather Casey at the foot of McPherson street at the town entrance – the same picture is in my home – along with an explanation of his and his brother’s roles in founding the town that confirmed the family legend. After a day of driving through endless unbroken miles of cornfields, the sight of the area’s lush hills was welcome. My guess is that of all the hundreds of miles where my ancestor’s prosperous company laid down track across the country, this is the simple reason why he gave the area his name. It’s pretty.
Casey possesses the must-have of all small towns: a terrific ice cream parlor. While I downed a particularly high-butterfat version of chocolate chip cookie dough at Casey’s Creamery, the amused employee behind the counter watched as I stuffed a shopping bag full of Casey hats, Casey candles, Casey dishtowels and Casey dark roast coffee, brilliantly labeled, The Dark Side of Casey.
Rehka and I laughed and laughed.
I was amused, but grateful, too. How could I not be? So many circles closed in one Midwestern trip.
Grateful to my immigrant ancestor, who was illiterate but for being able to sign his name. Yet he had the moxie to form a company that helped found a town in a sweet corner of Iowa, along the way contributing his bit to the development of modern America.
Grateful that I applied for a job I ultimately couldn’t take and so came to the attention of The New York Times.
And grateful to friendships, formed out of happenstance, but deep nonetheless, defying the distance of years and miles.
I remember Rehka.
About 20 years ago (or so) she and her husband were writing down here in Florida -- I think for the Sun-Sentinel?
Both so talented.
I remember when he was diagnosed with ALS.
So heartbreaking.
Love your story about your career -- and Iowa!
I love this Casey and the wonderful divine way in which you were redirected. If it's for you, it will find a way. How perfect. 🙏