Farms, Friends, and Fort Wayne
We stared at the white paper bag that held our take-out pizza. Having just moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana, from northern New Jersey, my mom, dad, then 10-year-old brother Kevin, and I were hungry. Our lives had been packed in boxes, many still making their way to the Midwest on a moving van, and our new home, a rented farmhouse surrounded by 100+ acres on the outskirts of town, was still quite bare. A pizza seemed easiest that first evening in 1983, so we found a phonebook in a nearby drawer and ordered one. My dad and I then went to pick it up.
And that’s when we glimpsed them — toothpicks on the top of the pizza to keep the bag (yes, a bag) from falling onto the cheese. We stared in total bewilderment, quickly paid for our pie, and headed to the car, gently placing the bag on the back seat.
Awaiting our arrival, my mom had grabbed the paper plates and plastic wear from the other car. Pizza bag now in hand, we gathered around an old wooden table in the kitchen to determine the best way to approach this new Midwestern presentation of an East Coast staple. My dad chose to rip open the top of the bag rather than trying to slide the pizza out. We then saw the full situation. Our simple cheese pizza with toothpicks scattered atop it was cut into small squares, one toothpick per piece! “What was happening?” “Where were we?” My brother and I pondered both questions in silence.
Reflecting now, I can only imagine my expression at age 12 when my parents announced we were moving to this city in northeastern Indiana. There may be emojis today that can get somewhat close to the look that greeted that moment back in the mid-’80s. Fort Wayne? What on earth? How far is that? The well-worn atlas soon appeared as my parents showed us where our next zip code would be. A few months later, with the house sold and the cars jam-packed with life’s keepsakes, we headed to 46818 in our 1977 Oldsmobile station wagon (yep, the one with the cool brown paneling along the side). Our pet Samoyed, Nikki, had his spot way in the back as we began the trek to the Hoosier State. Next stop, a new adventure, one that began with bagged pizza but ended with our lives being changed for the better.
New friends join my great Aunt Lill for refreshments and story-sharing in 1984.
Over time, that rented Fort Wayne farmhouse, with its dirt basement and occasional field mice, generated endless stories. It became a place of laughter, community building, fish fries, sunset viewing, and storm surveying as we watched the rain clouds roll in, counting down until the first drops hit the roof. Life proved a little slower looking out at these Indiana fields, and while my speedy speech still produced perplexed looks on some people’s faces (still see those looks even now), I soon discovered an unmatched authenticity in our new hometown.
In this city of more than 200,000, we each grew in different ways as we learned that “pop” meant soda, that farming was synonymous with John Deere, and that cows can break free of fences and settle on your front lawn at 3 a.m., mooing without reserve. I still smile thinking about my Brooklyn, N.Y.-born father wearing his pjs, robe, and slippers trying to “direct” the herd back home. Let’s just say my dad and the farmer across the street never really saw eye-to-eye after that bovine escape.
Fort Wayne also led to newfound friends, who embraced our East Coast idiosyncrasies and who still feel like family today despite the passage of time. To them, the farm became a second home and a unique connector, drawing people from varying backgrounds to a welcoming space where they could share their journeys with us, if only for a few hours. Like that voice that once called Kevin Costner to build a ball field so “they” will come, opening the door of our Fort Wayne farmhouse seemed to translate into a cordial invitation for coffee and conversation.
I had the chance to drive by the old homestead last spring. Sadly, the farm is no longer there, replaced by a “land for sale” sign, but the fields still surround the space, and I could almost hear Farmer Mel’s tractor start up as it did at 5 a.m. most mornings. In the distance, grey clouds were forming, so I waited a bit to see if I could count down until the first drop fell.
My family eventually found a new pizza place, and we moved on to new adventures in 1987, but our Fort Wayne friendships remain. And every so often, when the sun sprinkles its rays just right across a field, the memories of an aging white farmhouse flood my mind again. Who says you can’t go home?
- Karen Gerboth