Soy de Floyds Knobs......

I started to write this entry in Buenos Aires but ran out of time. New friends and day-long nights distracted me from the keyboard. Since returning from Argentina I’ve had time to finish my thoughts. It’s now go time.

Man your battle stations.

My first week in Buenos Aires, I told everyone that I was from Chicago. Reasons for doing so included: it’s where I live; it’s a large metropolis and likely to be known in a foreign country; and I quietly harbored hope that an Argentine would greet me in broken English with: “A team that is known as: Da Bears!”

As tempting as it might have been to hold out for an Argentine Super Fan, around the tenth day I realized that “Chicago” was a mistake of galactic proportions. From that moment on my unconditional response was: “Soy de Floyds Knobs.”

I don’t know how I could have been so careless. The year is 2007. The world is flat. And every shack-of-a-town in the world is accessible with a click of the mouse. Not referencing the Knobs was a serious, two-fold oversight on my part.

First, I belatedly realized that I should have been acting as a parishioner: building grass-roots international support for Floyds Knobs as a candidate to host the 2040 Summer Olympics. My mouth waters as I contemplate the International Olympic Committee (IOC) arriving in the Knobs to meet with local representatives (Hairmaster Ron, Letty Walter, Port, Sammy O, Bob Singleton, and Donna from Tumbleweed).

Secondly, I came to understand that by negating mention of my humble roots, I was unintentionally negating a differentiating characteristic. Anyone can be from Chicago.

You have to be somebody to be from Floyds Knobs.

Floyds Knobs will always mean home to me. Everything about the Knobs, especially the name, brings a smile to my face. I love knowing there was a Floyd (Colonel Davis Floyd); I love driving around his (our) knobs; and I love being from a town that is possessive -- even if the apostrophe is optional and I normally do without.

Come to think of it, that’s another reason to love my bite-size hometown just north of the Mason-Dixon Line. How many towns have two acceptable spellings (Floyd’s Knobs and Floyds Knobs)? There’s even a bumper sticker which encourages the rivalry: “I live in Floyds Knobs, not Floyd’s Knobs.” Also offered vice versa.

You can’t tell me this town isn’t syntax utopia.

I think it’s safe to say my fondness for the Knobs is now approaching a fanatical state. In actuality, I wasn’t always this zealous in my fanfare. My appreciation took awhile to groom.

When my family first moved from Louisville to Floyds Knobs (IN), a cross-river trek of 16 miles, I wasn't a happy camper. I was ten: Katie Reese was my lone priority (and yes, I still remember her name). I also hated the prospect of moving out of the big city (now, now) and into Podunk, Indiana. At the time, Louisville felt like Narnia and Floyds Knobs felt like, well, Floyds Knobs.

In the early days I lied. When my family ventured out of town, I told people that I lived in a suburb of Louisville (partially true). I neglected to mention Floyd or his knobs. Then, as the years went by, I came to grips with reality: my family wasn’t moving back across the muddy Ohio. Floyds Knobs was for good.

Home is a funny thing. It doesn't come with a recipe. I’ve lived in Chicago for six years, and it still doesn’t feel like home. In all likelihood, it never will.

Small towns, in particular, take awhile. You have to become part of the smallness. In my case, I had to leave the Knobs to realize what it meant to me -- to equate it with home. Sometimes distance is the missing variable in the equation. You realize this when you’re elsewhere and can compare.

Now, I’m infatuated with everything related to Floyds Knobs. A few weeks ago I even falsified documents for the Knobs’ greater glory. When I sent in my registration form for the Chicago Marathon, I wrote in my address as “Floyds Knobs” (not Chicago), wanting the Knobs to show up in the official results.

Hopefully, readers of the Chicago Tribune will scan the results of the marathon and head for the computer to see what “Floyds Knobs” unearths in the search engine. Perhaps someone will even click on Google Maps and ask for an aerial view of 47119.

As much as I like that prospect, I wish inquiring minds could go further: beyond the static information on the computer screen. In small towns you need to meet the kinfolk (literal reference) walking around town to get a sense of the place. You can’t vouch for the grandeur of the Knobs by looking up a url.

You need to meet some Knobbers.

Knobbers include Kathy of Kathy’s Silk-Screen & Embroidery, operated out of Kathy’s home around mile six of my eight-mile running loop. Kathy's marketing slogan: “No job too big or too small.”

Kathy: God bless you.

About five miles from Kathy’s house, a dozen elders meet for coffee every morning at the local Dairy Queen. The DQ congregation has been a cornerstone of Knobs’ living for the last twenty years (going back to when it was operated as Druther’s). Each regular has their own bodily imprint on a certain booth (some indents are more noticeable than others). If someone in the group dies (unlikely), a succession plan will dictate the rotation of seating, ensuring the booths are appropriately manned.

Life in its proper state.

The Knobs also boasts one celebrity resident in the form of Fuzzy Zoeller. His errant comments regarding the Champions Dinner at The Masters notwithstanding, Fuzzy is one of the friendliest and most community-oriented people you could ever hope to meet. I can make that statement in certain terms. I worked for him.

In the Knobs you’re likely to see Fuzzy driving his golf cart around town. You’ll also see shuffle board courts painted on driveways, and above ground pools sitting atop downhill backyards. Strawberry orchards are sprinkled in between subdivisions, and grassy parks named after local teachers pop up every fourth mile. Last but not least, a drive-in movie theatre serves up double features all summer long.

A slice of Americana awaits on the other side of every knob.

For most residents life starts and end with the Knobs. They come from the Jonathan Franzen school of thought believing “better not to leave than to have to come back.” However, some ignore Franzen and simultaneously disprove the physics of small towns – escaping beyond the county line and landing in distant, less knobby, grounds.

There are still others, like me, who may end up on the short end of Franzen’s equation: appreciating our lives away but sensing that a return to the known world might be in order. Sensing that we might have to go back.

If I return it will be for the pepperoni pizza at Arni’s, monthly visits to see Hairmaster Ron, a standing Saturday tee time at Valley View, and spontaneous trips to DQ to ensure the booths are worn in all the right places. And more than anything, it will be for the Knobbers. Without friends and loved ones to share in a localized life, the aforementioned pleasures would be lessened, and the years muted and slow.

Then again, time has always struggled in towns like Floyds Knobs. Time marches on, but the town remains the same. Yesterday equals tomorrow, and tomorrow will equal today (the good lord willin’ and the creeks don’t rise).

My day-to-day life is made easier knowing that such a place exists. Its presence, and the certainty that comes with it, are warmth incarnate. It's a feeling of satisfaction trumped only by a final consideration:

I know that if I return, I will already be a part of the smallness.