From the editor: Better here than there

Why would anyone wish to bury themselves—figuratively—in the wilds of western Nebraska?

People residing in more sophisticated climes toss around names like Canali, Rocky Patel and Astin Martin. They speak of commuting times and cocktails at happy hour. They attach the same importance to area codes we do to the coveted 39 or 21 license plates.

In urban areas they debate such options as Punjabi, Neapolitan or New American for dinner. We savor Bud Light and toss verbal accusations over the choice of Ford over Chevy to haul us there.

So why relish life out here? Well, let me offer up an answer.

Driving home from Leyton’s sub-district final on Thursday, my car barreled over a large chunk of something left in the middle of the road. The encounter popped my left front tire—and the search for a safe place to pull over covered about a mile and rendered the rubber carcass completely useless for the remainder of eternity.

The incident took place in the netherworld between Bridgeport and Leyton. The call center we reached by cell phone actually used the phrase “middle of nowhere” after being forced to look up our location on a map. It was dark, cold and the heater in my car prefers to pump cool air when not charging down the road at more than 60 miles per hour.

And, as it turned out, my spare was flat as well. No matter—the jack did not fit those aftermarket lug nuts bolting on the now flaccid tire.

Before I even left the car to check on our predicament, Pat and Colleen McKay pulled alongside. They shoot pictures of Leyton sports and other events for this paper and others, without complaint. Once I rolled down my window they recognized me, of course—but not before. He offered to take my spare and pack it with air.

Keep in mind the couple had spent an entire day at work, made their way to Gering for a basketball game and now had to consider picking up their children when Leyton’s bus arrived back at the school. And they volunteered to fill the tire knowing there was no guarantee of fitting it, thanks to mismatched equipment.

OK—so we had to be towed in the end. The tow truck driver kept us entertained with stories of his nephew and niece, with insights into Sidney and its people. The stretch of asphalt between Dalton and Sidney that on normal trips appears to drag now flashed by in what seemed like a moment.

At just about midnight we dropped the car off at Darrin’s. In the morning I explained the job at hand: changing a flat tire.

Tough, that.

The owner called after a time and informed me the original tire was beyond repair. But, as the work had been nothing more than fitting the spare filled by volunteers, I was free to pick the car up and drive it away.

Two years ago, the tires that came with the car when I bought it showed signs of wear. The shop manager told me I could not safely drive it away, but I countered with the demands of a sub-district basketball game in Alliance. The manager said “take my truck.”

That’s the reason we live in Nebraska’s panhandle. When the paper needs photographs, there are those willing to kick in. When a tire needs filled, there is always someone to volunteer, when a car dies, there is always a person who says ‘take mine.’ I would venture to say that the folks behind Canali, Prada—even behind Carhart—would never do as much.

We live here because the folks around us serve as a reminder—every day—of life lived as a true community.