Expatriate: from Iowa to the heart of France

Janet Hulstrand (Brooklyn Bridge)

I was initially drawn to this book simply because of its title. I grew up in the American Midwest, wandered off to other surrounds, then returned in 1990. This memoir was too much to resist: A Long Way from Iowa: From the Heartland to the Heart of France. Unlike the author, I did not end up living abroad (she eventually settled in France), and yet in reading the book I found that we had shared concerns in our quest for home away from home.

The book’s subtitle is as appropriate as its title. It turns out that the author was not actually from Iowa. But some of her immediate relatives were. They lived in towns on the state’s northern border, or in Minnesota, which is where she was actually from. But it hardly matters, since as her account confirms, the Midwest is the Midwest, more or less, and customs do not radically change simply by crossing the border. 

This book is in essence the author’s search to find herself. It is from a female point of view, so she is especially determined to learn more about the inner lives of her mother and grandmother (her mother’s mother). Did they somehow influence her writer’s inclination? In search of her beginnngs, she revisits her family’s origins in such Iowa communities as Cresco, Bonair, and Lime Springs. In Iowa, Cresco is commonly said to be the hometown of five US Navy admirals, as well as that of Nobel Prize laureate Norman Borlaug. In addition, Lime Springs is the birthplace of Iowa poet Joseph Langland (author of The Wheel of Summer, and The Sacrifice Poems).

As the book progresses, the author documents her path in search of a life as a writer, just one part of her eventual self, which blends in with her additional roles as a student, marriage partner, parent, teacher, New Yorker, and expatriate. She ran into rough terrain, as have we all to some extent, but survived the challenges admirably. Like so many who search for an unknown, her life has been sometimes a zigzag, a meander, but a largely eventful and colorful one. In an especially candid moment she says that, more than anything, it was her skill as a typist that enabled her to survive, while pursuing her goal as a writer.

For many years, she and her family lived in New York City and Washington DC, in advance of deciding to settle in France. The various things that happened to her—and the people who became her employers as well as her friends—are among the most compelling. It was of particular interest to read her account of working as an assistant for Caroline Kennedy (the daughter of JFK), Andrew Young, Paul Robeson, Jr. and others.

Today, Janet Hulstrand lives in France (below, in her author’s photograph, there is a loaf of French bread in her arms), where she writes books and teaches occasional courses about French culture for Americans, and literary aspects of Paris. She also writes for magazines, and has published two other books, including Demystifying the French: How to Love Them, and Make Them Love You, and (as coauthor) Moving On: A Practical Guide to Downsizing the Family Home. 

Of convenient access is her blog, called Writing from the Heart, Reading for the Road.

Janet Hulstrand (in France)

 

Famous modern photographer from Des Moines

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[Gertrude] Käsebier (née Gertrude Stanton) had a photographic studio on Fifth Avenue in New York…Her career had taken off late in the 1890s, when Alfred Stieglitz published and exhibited her photographs. She was, he asserted, “the leading artistic portrait photographer of the day”…

As an adult, Käsebier lived most of her life in the east, but her childhood was more diverse than that. She was born in 1852 in Des Moines, Iowa, and spent her first eight years in what was then called Fort Des Moines. When her family moved westward to profit from providing supplies to prospectors, her father became the first mayor of Golden, Colorado.
    
It was while living in Iowa and Colorado that she became intrigued by Native Americans, specifically Lakota Sioux. She later recalled that, during her childhood, it was a simpler, less treacherous time.…

The full story is told in a new book by Roy R. Behrens, titled DREAMS OF FIELDS: Memory Traces of Iowa’s Past (Ice Cube Press 2025). 

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an ill-fated way to celebrate war's end in 1945

Digital Montage © Roy R. Behrens 2024

Above One of a series of in-process montages having to do with the Ballets Russes (the Russian Ballet). Copyright © Roy R. Behrens, 2024.

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ART BUCHWALD, Leaving Home (New York: G.P. Putnam ’s Sons, (I993) , pp. 188-189—

I was in New York City on VJ day [Victory Over Japan Day in 1945]. No one can imagine what it was like to be a Marine on VJ night in New York City. People hugged me, girls kissed me, my hand was sore from being shaken. Then I went and did something stupid. I bought a pint of very bad whiskey called “America the Brave." It was even worse than raisin jack [fermented raisin wine]. I drank the whole bottle in four minutes and proceeded to get sick on the curb at Broadway and 47th Street. I presented an awful picture, a disgrace to my uniform, my country, and to the Great White Way. Why, on this night of all nights, I chose to get drunk instead of enjoying the moment is something I have often asked myself, since I could have been dancing in the streets with a Rockette from Radio City in my arms, or a Smith girl like the ones I used to ogle at the Biltmore. I could have been taken to the Stork Club by a divorcee whose boyfriend was a lieutenant on a destroyer off the Philippines. I could have wound up seated on a couch in Frank Sinatra's dressing room at the Paramount Theater. Instead, I put a dagger in my stomach with a pint of the worst rotgut money could buy .

historical scholars / Gould in them there pillows

Joe Gould's Secret

Matthew Josephson, Life Among the Surrealists. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1962, p. 273—

Just when the troubles of Broom [magazine] were at their height, the eccentric little Joe Gould [aka Professor Seagull] fell upon me with demands for money—providing Shakespearean comic relief against the tension of our literary tragedy. We had published a few pages of his so-called History [An Oral History of our Time] in one of our last issues, but had announced at the same time that our magazine had no money to pay for contributions. Greatly excited at being put into print at last, Joe Gould refused to believe that he would not be paid an honorarium of some kind, and kept telephoning me at all hours. Beside myself with exasperation, I swore at him; whereupon this tiniest and most impecunious of historical scholars began to address me in a tone of severe formality, declaring that I had grossly insulted him and he was obliged to challenge me to a “duel”—a duel, with the midget Gould! Since it was he who issued the challenge, he requested that I name the weapons to be used.

“Pillows!” I roared into the telephone. “I’ll meet you with pillows at sunset tomorrow.” But he never came.

a car came down the street and ran into them

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Above Roy R. Behrens, Moon River Dog (© 2021). Digital montage.

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Frank Jacobs, The Mad World of William M. Gaines. NY: Bantam Books, 1973, p. 77—

In the fall of 1954, [William M.] Gaines [founder and publisher of MAD Magazine] and Nancy [a close friend and staff member] were turning into a gas station on West 96th Street in Manhattan. As they made their turn, a car came down the street and barreled into them. No one was hurt, and Gaines exchanged the usual insurance data with the driver of the other car, whose name was Gene Zahn. About a year later, two blocks from the gas station, Gaines pulled up to a newspaper stand. After buying his paper, he returned to his car, backed out a few feet, and was struck by a car rounding the corner. No one was hurt, and Gaines exchanged the usual insurance data with the driver of the other car, whose name was Gene Zahn.

“Didn't we have an accident a year ago?” Gaines asked.

“I believe we did,” answered Zahn, giving a polite nod to Nancy, whom he remembered from the previous run-in. “Say, don't you think it's time you two got married?”

Gaines thought if over and decided that the point was well-taken. Within a month, he and Nancy were married.

a modern art museum, telephone and a martini

Donald Barthelme (in “Brain Damage” in City Life, 1976)—

The Wapituil are like us to an extraordinary degree. They have a kinship system which is very similar to our kinship system. They address each other as “Mister,” “Mistress,” and “Miss.” They wear clothes which look very much like our clothes. They have a Fifth Avenue which divides their territory into east and west. They have a Chock Full o’ Nuts and a Chevrolet, one of each. They have a Museum of Modern Art and a telephone and a martini, one of each. The martini and the telephone are kept in the Museum of Modern Art. In fact they have everything that we have, but only one of each thing... They can conceptualize but they don't follow through. For instance, their week has seven days—Monday, Monday, Monday, Monday, Monday, Monday, and Monday. They have one disease, mononucleosis. The sex life of a Wapituil consists of a single experience, which he thinks about for a long time.

Typographic Poster | Alex Waters

Typographic poster © Alex Waters (2015)

Above Poster by Alex Waters, graphic design student, Department of Art, University of Northern Iowa (2015), in celebration of printer Claude Garamond and the typeface that now bears his name, Garamond.

•••

Larry Rivers, What Did I Do?: The Unauthorized Autobiography (New York: HarperCollins, 1992), p. 163.

The studio behind these windows [below the engraved building sign at 122 Second Avenue in New York] was the largest and lightest of the three on the fifth floor. Harry Holtzman, an artist, held the lease. He brought Piet Mondrian to the United States and offered him the use of that space. Piet walked up the five flights to look Harry's place over, decided he was not up to the climb. Harry found him a studio a little more down to earth, uptown. If 122 had had an elevator, Mondrian's Broadway Boogie-Woogie would have been called Second Avenue Boogie-Woogie.

Identical Twin Cities

John Page, Together Now (2011). Collage on canvas, 34 x 40 in.

Trevor Fishlock, in Americans and Nothing Else. Cassell (1980)—

Minneapolis and St Paul..are nicknamed the Twin Cities. They are divided by the Mississippi River, and united by the belief that the inhabitants on the other side of the river are inferior.

...

Harrison Salisbury, in Chester G. Anderson, ed., Growing Up in Minnesota. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976—

Once [after he moved to New York], on top of the Woolworth Building (the Empire State Building did not yet exist), a man asked my mother what it was that lay beyond the Hudson. She said New Jersey. "Oh, yes," he said. "Well, I've never been west of the Hudson." How to explain Minnesota—not only west of the Hudson but west of the Mississippi? It was not easy. New Yorkers didn't seem to understand the difference between Minneapolis and Indianapolis. And even when I explained they didn't seem to think it really made a difference. I knew that New Yorkers were very sophisticated people. In fact, I was ashamed of coming from a place out west where, as I understood the New York view, no one really lived and certainly no one from New York ever ventured.

...

Art Buchwald, More Caviar. New York: Harper, 1959—

Brno is a vry nce cty, but we ddn't get a chance to spnd mch tme thre... Thre are mny twns in Czechoslovakia wthout vwels, but Brno is the lrgest one of thm all.