09/03/2026
The Castles of the Midwest
by Sarah Poff
Yesterday we stopped by the home of some old college friends.
Now, when I say “old friends,” I don’t mean they are old and we aren’t. Both couples have earned that title by now!
There is something special about sitting with people who knew you when you were young—people who remember who you were before careers, children, grandchildren, and nearly fifty years of life filled in the spaces between.
Thanks to social media and telephone calls that no longer cost a small fortune, we have been able to hold on to one another. Those friendships bring a richness to our lives that we may not fully appreciate until we are sitting together again, laughing about the past.
At some point, my friend mentioned my Southern accent.
I don’t hear much about it now that I live in Mid-Missouri, but it was often noticed when we lived in the Kansas City area. Apparently, when I get around people who knew me back then, my accent remembers where it came from and comes home before I do.
Some roots just refuse to be hidden.
As we continued toward Springfield, we drove through the farm country where I once student-taught. It felt a little like driving through my past—not my childhood past, but my college past, when so much of life was still waiting ahead of me.
We were also carrying part of our family’s past in the car.
Major Ernest Poff’s uniforms, photographs, papers, and other belongings were traveling with us to Wilson’s Creek National Battlefield for a temporary museum display. More than sixty years ago, he coordinated the Army’s participation in the 1961 Wilson’s Creek Civil War Centennial.
Now, all these years later, we were carrying his things back to help tell his story.
As we passed through Buffalo, Alec slowed down so I could photograph the great metal grain bins shining against the blue Missouri sky.
Years ago, I heard someone on television call grain bins “the castles of the Midwest.”
I never forgot those words.
European castles held kings, queens, and royal treasures. Our Midwestern castles hold something quieter: the harvest produced by early mornings, tired hands, uncertain weather, family sacrifices, and the faith to plant again every spring.
They hold the work that feeds us.
Perhaps that is why the sight of them touched me.
I grew up in farm country. When I travel these smaller roads, something inside me recognizes home. Sometimes I remember my Bootheel childhood. Sometimes I remember my college years. Sometimes I think about my ancestors who came before me, looking for land and a place where their families could stay.
Yesterday, all those roads seemed to meet.
Old friends remembered the sound of my younger voice. Familiar fields carried me back to the beginning of my teaching life. Major Poff’s belongings rested behind us, entrusted to our care. And my American flag cap sat on the dashboard as those silver castles rose in the distance.
We hear a great deal about what is wrong with America. We should tell our history honestly, but we should also remember what is good.
America has always been held together by ordinary people—farmers, teachers, soldiers, craftsmen, neighbors, and families who quietly do the work placed before them.
Strength does not always make a lot of noise.
Sometimes it is an old friendship that survives the passing years.
Sometimes it is a family protecting the stories entrusted to them.
Sometimes it is a farmer planting once again.
And sometimes it looks like silver castles rising above the Missouri fields, reminding us to slow down, remember where we came from, and be thankful for the people who helped bring us home.
#250
