Take I-70 west to Highway 79 north for about an hour and a half and you will find yourself in the small town of Elsberry, Missouri.  For some reason, my summer baseball team scheduled a tournament at the rather decrepit field on the outskirts of downtown Elsberry, though it was hardly a metropolis, and I therefore spent most of my waking hours in rural Missouri this past weekend.  It was a painful, amusing, and enlightening experience.

I had an image of Elsberry in my mind before even setting out on Friday.  It was a tiny town surrounded by farmland, I thought, centered around a small cluster of run-down restaurants and businesses and occupied by a couple thousand rednecks with long hair and no teeth.  For the most part, I was right.  Downtown was little more than a general store, a gas station, and a small Italian restaurant.  The town has barely over 2000 residents, many of whom do indeed sport a grin with some missing pieces.

I had held a general disdain for rural Missouri before the trip, a preconceived notion that everyone living outside the suburbs was a hillbilly farmer who carried a concealed weapon and had a portrait of George W. Bush hanging right next to the picture of Jesus.  I was wrong, of course, and I knew I was wrong, but still I needed proof to change my mind.  I got in its simplest form after the first game of the tournament.

I was walking around the concession stand looking for a bag of ice for the team cooler.  I had no idea where to look, and it was apparent.  A man who had just pulled into the parking lot in his beat-up pick-up truck noticed me and asked what I was looking for.  I told him, and without hesitation he reached into his pocket, took a dollar out of his wallet, and told me to go down the road to the main building and buy a bag.  I thanked him and went, not thinking very much about his kindness.

I realize now that his generosity represents the general attitude of many, if not most, of the “rednecks” that I met in Elsberry.  They may not have degrees from prestigious colleges and they may not wear khaki shorts and collared shirts everywhere they go, but they know how to treat people.  They say “Excuse me” when they brush past you, they hold open doors, and they give you directions without having to be asked for them.  Even at the local Subway, where I ate lunch between games, the teenagers there had a respect that is hard to find in Clayton.

In this way, I learned that despite the swarms of gnats that were everywhere and the blistering heat, Elsberry isn’t that bad of a place.  My car wasn’t vandalized for having an Obama bumper sticker, I didn’t see anyone walking around with a shotgun, and I couldn’t find anyone wearing a Jesus t-shirt.  The townspeople were kind and warm, and despite the lack of modernity there was a certain homeliness about the town.  Plus, they know how to play their baseball – we lost the last game of the tournament 20 to 2.