miles east of Grand Island, I tnrned sonthrnoff the interstate onto Highvva 81, headedrnfor the Kansas border across gentlyrnrolling hills with woods growing np betweenrnthem in the drainages. The highwayrn—the northern extension of U.S.rn35—was under construction, beingrnwidened from two lanes to four to accommodaternenhanced truck traffic betweenrnCanada and Nuevo Laredo, Mexico,rnsince NAFTA. For the 100 miles onrnto Concordia the swath of destrucHon, anrnintermittent double ribbon ot concreternbordered by fresh cutbanks, chainedrncedar trees, and smoldering brushpiles,rnraced across the loel rural heartland,rnotherwise good for nothing except as arnbutt for editorialists and niglittime TVrnhosts. Ed’s hand-drawn map, arrived thernafternoon before my departure, instructedrnme to turn left at Concordia’s firstrnstoplight and continue nine and a halfrnmiles to the hamlet of Ames, take a right,rnproceed a mile and a half to a black mailboxrnon the left side of the road, then rightrnagain along the gracl dricwa’ oppositernthe box. Waiting to greet nie on thernturnaround in front of the house as Irndrove up were a bo and his dog, Ben andrnBlack. You’ll never find a more Americanrnwelcome than fiiat.rnFirst meetings after months or years ofrnformed telephonic impressions can be arnshock. In tills instance, Ed (wearing thernCarhart overalls of the Kansas husbandmanrnand work boots) and I (cowboyrnboots, snapbutton shirt, and “End of thernTrail” belt buckle) simply picked uprnwhere we’d left off the cening before.rnHe’d postponed tiie cocktail hour to joinrnme in a beer, but first I had to make a tourrnof the premises with Ben, a precociousrnnine-vear-old, starting with the dog runrnand proceeding bv serpentine paths torntiie bass pond onlv a few ards from thernhouse and another, smaller pond behindrnit that Ben promised was full of lunkerrncatfish. Prom there we continued on torntiie vineyard, Ed’s vegetable garden andrnMarl’s flower beds, tiie Tower (a raisedrnplatform with chairs and a roof over it,rncast b’Ed in concrete), and the Cae (excavatedrnfrom the backfill taken from tirernbass pond when it was dug IS ears ago),rncontaining the fall harvest of potatoes,rnsweet potatoes, and garlic, Ed’s reloadingrnbench, an impressive collection of toolsrnand machinery, and a sfill more impressivernwine cellar. “It’s a life’s work,” Edrnsaid simply when I complimented himrnon the spread that had its beginning yearsrnago when he acquired the land from hisrnparents, whose own farm is not morernthan a couple of miles away.rn”I recognize the oiee!” Mari exclaimedrnas Ed and I entered the house byrnthe back door, A dark-haired, willowyrnbeauty from Minnesota, she is therndaughter of a Lutheran minister andrnthe accomplished organist at her localrnchurch — also the best cook, I was to discorner, between Kansas Citv and Reno,rnNevada —to whom Ed had artfully arrangedrnan introduction in 1986. Seatedrnat the granite-slab island in Marl’srnkitchen, the three of us killed our thirstrnwith cold beer before Eld uncorked a bottlernof Detrixhe Vineyard Red: a yearrnvounger than what he’d sent at Christmasrnand, if anvthing, een drier and morernbodied.rnThere is no greater pleasure in lifernthan an intimate dinner part}’ vv’ith closestrnfriends, one of them a Jeffersonian polymath,rnthe other a loelv and clever womanrn(even if she isn’t yours). Ed set the answeringrnmachine to take calls while wernenjoyed Marl’s pasta, two bottles of redrnwine, and the brilliant conversation inrnpeace and candlelight; after the dessertrn(something wonderful by Mari, who isrnher own pastn’ chef and baker) the menrnadjourned to Ed’s book- and gun-linedrnden for branch’, cigars, and —somethingrnwonderful I couldn’t have anticipated.rnI was on my second brandy and alreadyrnstubbing the first cigar, my feet uprnin an eas’ chair, w hen I became aware ofrna presence I realized had been intrudingrnon m}’ consciousness for a good half-hourrnand more. “Who is that?” I asked Ed, sittingrnstraight up in tiie chair, and from hisrngratified expression understood we’drnidentified yet another taste in common.rnHer name was —is—Andrea Marcovicci,rna cabaret or torch singer performing regularlyrnin San Francisco, Chicago, andrnthe Algonquin Hotel’s Oak Room inrnNew York, with a pure voice, exquisiterntechnique, and enough refined sex appealrnto make the connoisseur of truernwomanhood shoot a bottle of Delamainrnbrandy off the mahogany sideboard. Irnhad to hear “Do You Miss Me?” andrnthe old torch classic. “These FoolishrnThings,” over and oer, while Ed sat backrnin his chair with his feet up on the desk,rngrinning like a man whose ugh’ ducklingrnhas just won a beaub,’ contest and a scholarshiprnto Oxford —previous attempts atrnimpressing friends with tiie marvel that isrnMarcovicci haing been met by shrugsrnand a polite, “Oh, Ed . . . ” An unabashedrnromantic with her heart in Piaf srnand Heniingwav’s Paris and Dietrich’srnBerlin, Andrea isn’t eeryone’s cup of tea.rnFor me, she’s a 120-ponnd charger fromrnwhich to restore one’s own romantic battery.rn(Awfull}’ good to look at in herrntrademark black velvet dress, too.)rnI spent four days with the Detrixhes,rnfishing in the pond before supper whilernthe smoke of Ed’s cigar mingled fragrantlyrnwith the October haze and Ben’s minnowrnlure took the biggest bass, hotting uprnreloads for use on the target range Ed hadrnmade above the creek, visiting a gunrnshow in Belleille (vhere at least one exhibitorrnconfessed to quitting the gunrnbusiness that the goxernment crackdownrnhas eon erted into a major legal risk), exploringrnthe country about, talking, eating,rnand drinking—until Sunday morning,rnwhen Mari departed with her musicrnfor church and I got on the road forrnhome, 542 miles and nine hours away,rnleaving Ed to take up his life’s work again.rnThis was community in modernrnAmerica, I thought, following the RepublicanrnRiver west across an endless seriesrnof hills and alles stepping inexorabU’ uprnto the still unsuspected mountains: arncountrx of 270 million people, measuringrn3,000 miles b’ 2,000, where you dri’ern542 miles to isit closest friends. I havernmany friends, scattered everywhere inrnthe United States —few of the best ofrnthem, it seems, in wliate’er place I callrnhome. What is needed is my own comniunih’rn—call it Chiltown —bringing togetherrnall my friends in a single unincorporatedrnlocale where we can shoot gunsrnand hunt, ride horses, listen to good music,rndrink red wine, eat, talk, make lo e tornbeautiful and brilliant women—and theyrnto us. Driing through Red Cloud —rnWilla Cather’s hometown —I realizedrnthe futilih’ of such dreams. Though RedrnCloud still looks prosperous, the otherrntowns along Route 136 —Inavale, Ri’erton,rnFranklin —are merely ghosts of perishedrncommunities, the stone buildingsrnalong the thoroughfare ‘acant, crumblingrnliterall} into the street, peoplernnioxed awa’ to Lincoln, Omaha, KansasrnCih, tiiosc remaining taking their businessrnto the malls and supermarkets ofrnKearne’ and Grand Island. A sad developmentrnin the histor of Americanrncivilization, but one not entirely withoutrnhope. Behemoth can —it has — destroyedrncommunity; but only friendsrnhave the power to destroy friendship. Refusingrnto exercise that power is more thanrnour last best hope; it is, as well, the ultimaternrexenge. trn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn