O Home, Home on the Plains

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Getting into town is easy by car or by plane -- Northwest and American both have charter flights (read: dinky little planes) that fly in two to three times daily. If you leave I-80 on the Hwy 81 exit and follow it north, you'll run into it after a few hours, by car. Since it's the 7th largest city in Nebraska, it's not hard to find.

Each room has a balcony where you can step out in the fresh air and look over the acres and acres of property that comprises the lands. There is a large pond with a fountain on one side, viewable from both the main community room and several of the suites. Most of the rooms do have a private bath, though the ones that don''t are significantly cheaper.

If you''ve got some extra cash for your trip, you can also rent a small guest house that''s down the hill and over a covered bridge from the main house, which has a full kitchen and several sleeping rooms -- at $80-$100 per night, it''s significantly cheaper than getting two hotel rooms elsewhere.

The grounds are fabulous -- from the old creek, where you can see bullfrogs, catfish, and mudskippers often, to the wooded groves, there is no reason to venture off the property unless you''re feeling adventurous. Breakfast is provided -- a full country breakfast that will break the resolve (and the diets of) many of its temporary occupants.

The directions provided are a little difficult to find. Remember to turn left onto the gravel road -before- the local winery, or you''ll end up in no-man''s-land, as I found out from personal experience.

Overall, this is one of the most charming places you can find in the Norfolk area. At only 12 miles from the city limits, it''s well-worth the short drive to get to a place as secluded and wonderful as Willow Rose.

Fifteen years later, the Uptown is still going strong, having some of the best, most sophisticated food in Norfolk. (Understand something, you out-of-towners: crab cakes are considered to be exotic cuisine around here in the land of steak and potatoes, so don't be shocked if you find things you'd consider standard to be on the menu under the chef's specialties.)

The interior looks like a French cafe -- or at least what you'd imagine one to look like if you've never been to Paris. Shining black laquer tables and wainscotting, warm coral-beige walls, and works by local artists grace the walls. A slow rattan fan swirls lazily above your head. Burgundy cloth napkins and heavy bistro silverware sit next to the wine list on your plate. It's a very heady experience, and those that can suspend disbelief long enough to ignore the men in overalls at the next tablediscussing hog reports can easily wish themselves into a bustling French street, without the rude waiters.

I grew up thinking The Uptown was the most expensive restaurant on earth. So when I treated my mother the last time I was back, I took along $80, thinking we'd need that much for dinner and desserts. Color me surprised when both of us ate -- and ate -well- -- on $25. Including drinks, dessert, and tips. I've been jaded by the big cities, I think.

Dinners range from Omaha steaks to seafood, all at a very good, Midwest price. It's a must-see.

This is where the locals come to play, if they're downtown. On any given morning, the same set of men will be sitting in the same set of chairs, surrounded by farmers in town on "business", talking about everything from the draught (because there's always a draught) or the flooding (because there's always some flooding).

The menu includes items such as deep-fat fried grilled cheese sandwiches, eggs fried in lard, and chicken-fried steaks covered with thick gravy that makes your arteries stiffen in fear. The kicker is that it's good -- so good that all your big-city sensibilities of what you should and should not eat will fly out of the window faster than a cat with its tail on fire.

A twang in your voice is not required for admittance, but may be beneficial to help you blend in. As will a knowledge of the day's agricultural laws being passed out there in Washington D.C., where nobody knows how to treat a farmer.

This is probably the best place in Norfolk to go for some local color. It's open from five a.m. until two p.m. only, rain or shine, blizzard or draught, national holidays excluded.

It's hard for me to review it, in fact, without disolving into a puddle of my own drool. I ate here at least twice a week during my visit, and when I lived here, Ricardo's was a staple of my diet. Now that you know I'm nowhere near unbiased...

The offerings are fairly standard -- tacos, enchiladas, nachos, salads. The one dish that seems to be Ricardo's specific is the "sancho", a burrito-like creation with only meat, cheese and lettuce, wrapped in a soft corn shell. Though it sounds rather bland, the meat has a special blend of spices that nobody else has ever matched, in my opinion, and with the addition of the special mild sauce (the hot has a different flavor) and sour cream (both are free on the "salsa bar"), the sancho should be added in as one of the major food groups. All C. Everett Koops aside.

The interior is cheezy. Of the establishment, not the food. I have to be honest about this -- the velvet painted matadors and smiling terracotta suns would probably be borderline offensive, if anyone from Mexico happened to stop here. Chalk it up to midwest naievety.

The food is cheap. With a drink, a sancho dinner will run you around $5, and even that's considered to be expensive, so they throw in a taco and a dinner salad. It's an amazing price for a very large portion of food, half of which you'll probably have to take back to the hotel with you because it's extremely filling.

If you go out for dinner no other place, make Ricardo's a part of your Norfolk experience.

It's not fancy. In fact, Katie will tell you if you ask nicely that if it started to GET fancy, they'd close down. Instead, it's a casual place to kick up your boots (quite literally) and relax, eat giant helpings of family-style American Midwest cuisine while being served by waitresses in denim skirts and oxford shirts tied at the waist. All the wait staff is missing is a stalk of wheat to chew on, and it'd be cliche.

Actually, it IS cliche -- but that's part of its charm. The entire two-room building has been overhauled in eau de Cowboy, from the saddles and old photos on the wall to the signs that tell you the painted pumpkins from this year helped "X" number of people celebrate Thanksgiving this year. The ceilings and trim are rough wood, there is a smell of grease and vinyl everywhere, and so help me, the food is the best in the world.

It's a sort of "Cheers" atmosphere. Almost everyone in town eats here, and -has- for some time. When you walk in, even if you haven't been there for ages, the waitresses (who have an extremely low turnover rate -- a testiment to the commitment that Katie and Rol have for their employees) will call you by name, ask you how your mother is, remember you fondly in pigtails. If you haven't been here before, you'll make fast friends -- the staff doesn't let anyone eat if they aren't friends.

Dishes range from the "Hired Hand Burger", a $4 concoction of nothing more than a half-pound of meat on a bun with very little of the frou-frou like tomatoes or lettuce, to the "Fried Catfish Platter" for $5, which includes salad and "cottage fries" -- another, more country-fied name for flat potato rounds, deep-fat fried. There is nothing on the menu that could be considered exotic or inaccessible, no squid or caviar -- just plain food that fills you up and doesn't break the bank.

This is a family affair -- so expect everything from children's giggles to strange farmhand-type smells from the next table over. It's the only place in town that I've actually overheard the hostess ask a man to clean his boots before he'll be served. It's a piece of local treasure, though -- dust off the errant piece of hay (which may be from the bales stacked in the lobby, anyway) and relax. Enjoy your time here. It might start to feel like home.

The new building is a delight. High, vaulted ceilings almost two stories high, conference rooms, natural light streaming in from all directions, an outdoor sculpture garden. It's wonderful, really.

The problem is that for all its height, there is very little actual gallery space. Which is probably good, since there isn't much art to put on the walls. Travelling exhibits make up most of the content, and a few solid pieces owned by the museum actually stay on the walls in the hallway -- where the streaming natural light can eventually degrade them.

Don't get me wrong -- I think it's a wonderful place. The computer lab that they've opened has really expanded the role of the Museum, allowing them to give classes on everything from Windows 98 to digital webpage design (just like the Sally Strothers course, unfortunately). It allows for some extra income for the facility.

For such a small town, even having an art museum, much less a free one, is a great thing. I just wish that they'd have concentrated more on function than fancy design, and on putting art INSIDE instead of making the building such a creation to behold.

Still, free is free.

You see, Ralph is far from skini, if you'll pardon the pun. He's a 300+ pound biker with a reputation for a bad temper who inherited some money in the late '80's and decided to open a shop with it. He's known more for his Harley-Davidson t-shirts than his business accumen, his quick fists more than his penchant for accounting. But he's really done it. Skini's celebrated its 10th year in '99, and it shows no sign of slowing down now.

The inside is full of more neon, black leather, and bare brick walls covered with heavy metal posters from the heyday of big hair. There are clothing offerings like lace-up leather camisoles and zippered leather pants, all-hemp sweatshirts and baseball caps meant to be worn backwards. Alternative literature holds one rack -- and Skini's actually inspired two high school students to start their own zine at one point -- which ended when the anonymous pair were made not-so-anonymous and were tossed out of school for the foul language used therein. CDs and tapes hold another long set of racks, mostly with names like "Def Leppard" and "Vixen". But they fly out of the store without another look. The '80's, it seems, is still in vogue.

Behind a velvet curtain, you can have body parts pierced, or stained with needles and ink at a relatively low cost. They were going to offer branding, but a parental group shut that down.

Skini's is like walking back a decade or two in time. For those of us who grew up during those dark days of big hair and Warrant concerts, it might not be as fun to revisit as it is for the kids of Norfolk present, who seem to believe that this is the height of cool.

Go see. Buy. And while you're there, tease your bangs. Might as well get into the spirit of things.

If you ever wondered where all the repressed sexuality in Nebraska went -- it's here. Chewy is known for her short skirts and her box of toys (which she will occasionally bring with her to Karaoke Night -- for effect, of course), and for singing things like Cher's "Do you believe in love?" and changing the lyrics to make it triple-X rated.

It's a raucous good time, though it's been a little slow since Chewy's assistant, Amanda, who had a voice as big as Texas in a tiny little spiky-haired package, ran off with a boy to some unknown southern state. (Rumor has it she's coming back to it, though, so we'll see.)

If you're lucky enough to be staying in town over a Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, stop in. You won't regret it.

Oh, and no. Chewy doesn't lend out her toys. Unless you ask very, very nicely.

Traditional harvest activities take place all throughout the festival. Quilt shows, an opening of the Verges Caves (see review in this journal), a Dog Days sale downtown where everyone drags tables of tired merchandise outside and drastically cuts prices in the hopes of finding it a new home.

People flock to these events. (Which, I may add, actually includes a tractor pull some years) Since Norfolk is the "hub town" of all the smaller farm communities around it, the town is flooded with small-townies who take it over for the duration of the festival.

The best part is the annual parade, where most of the organizations in town drag out or create new floats and drive down some of the main streets for a morning. You have never seen as many streamers as are used in this parade -- nor have you heard as many renditions of "Louie, Louie" played by high school bands. People on the floats toss candy to passers-by and those who have crowded to see the show. Parents bring children, some of which join up with the parade as it goes by.

If you're lucky enough to be in town for the festival, do stop and watch. It's a piece of small-town Americana that's all but lost elsewhere.

From this inauspicious sign, up a long and field-like dirt and gravel road, is a farm outpost building with a sign on the side. ANTIQUES. Who could resist?

Outside, still exposed to the elements (and not looking any better for it, might I add) are old windows, stacked five deep, some still with glass, and metal tubs filled with old bottles of all shapes and colors, separated by size. Through a screen door into a musky, dusty-smelling entrance the size of a closet, and a huge interior awaits.

Antiquing in the more urban areas, any antique nut will tell you, is a dicey prospect. Things have been picked over and left behind, either because of quality or because of exorbitant prices. Here, there's none of that. Huge oak hutches (around $500) sit next to stacks of old paper ephemera and tintype photos (ranging from $.25 to $2), and side-tables that might be Stickley (under $200) are stacked with pieces of jewelry and old photo equipment.

For you antiquers used to dealing with costal buying, this is going to seem like heaven opened up and dropped a garage sale in your lap.

Service is excellent. If there's something you're looking for, it might be in the back room, where the things are that the store has acquired and not yet cleaned up or priced (which you're free to look through and make an offer for -- offer low), or, if not, you can leave a name and address and the store will contact you when/if something comes in.

You're also encouraged to make friends with the shop dog -- a huge old coondog that barks incessantly. "He's a good judge of character," the shop-owner's wife told me as the dog licked my fingers, "He was able to tell when some guy was trying to rip us off." She lowered her voice to avoid anyone else hearing (which was likely impossible since I was the only one there.) "He was one of those big-city guys," she whispers, making the allegation that much more grave.

This is a family-owned business, and one that's not very advertised. (Aside from the handpainted sign on the highway, of course.) If you're in from out-of-town, this might be just the place to go to find what you've been looking for.

Just remember to make friends with the dog.

There's a strict curfew in the town -- 11p.m. for anyone under 16, though they'll sometimes let you get away with midnight, if you know the policeperson who stops you. The tickets for this range from $25 to $75, depending on the number of offenses and how badly you cop an attitude (no pun intended). So what's a kid to do?

The answer for most kids in Norfolk is to either a) get in a car and cruise Norfolk Avenue until all hours (or until stopped, which frequently happens), or b) get gussied up and go play at the local 24-hour Wal-Mart.

Now, I know -- it seems strange to hang out at a chain store at midnight. But considering that by curfew, most of the "bad" kids are toasted and most of the "good" kids are bored, and that Wal-Mart has a giant toy section -- you'll realize there's a strange alchemy of fun hidden inside the grey and blue walls.

As a tourist, wandering through the aisles at midnight can be like taking your life into your own hands. Well-saturated mid-teens have this fascination with squirt guns, and you're likely to find a shower from a fellow patron easier than you would a shower-head in the hardware department. Employees are to the point where they don't really bother stopping the influx of kids -- just clean up after them.

If you're caught with a need for something (say, cold medicine or some other necessity), try across the street at the local Hy-Vee West instead. You'll avoid being a Wal-Mart casualty.

One of the "leading" families, headed by the Verges clan, decided to descend the sharp hill into the quarry below (they were brickmakers) and build a cave. The concrete, three-room cave was painted brightly with cartoon characters of the day (originality wasn't such a big deal as was a "festive" atmosphere) and kept sealed with a rolling rock. Inside, wild alcohol parties would take place -- until Prohibition ended and the cave was no longer needed for any illegal purpose, when it was sealed permanently with concrete.

Fast-forward about sixty years. The clearing where the quarry was is now a park, named after the fine, upstanding Verges patriarch. Someone breaks into the concrete, finds the rooms behind the rock, and the Verges' claim it was an old playroom. It is resealed to leave the park intact.

The story broke when some pictures were found -- the upstanding Mr. Verges had quite a wild side. Mrrowr.

Now the caves are a part of Norfolk history. Twice a year, during the LaVitsef (cleverly named as "festival" spelled backward) festival, and near founder's day, the caves are open for tours. A giant rock is rolled away by forklift, and you can see the roaring twenties, Nebraska-style.

The walls are faded and everything's been cleared out, furniture-wise, but there's still a feeling in the caves. Something interesting has happened here. It's history, behind a wall of stone.

After the untimely death of her husband, Bev sold the farm and turned her passion into profit. She opened up the Golden Needle, a store exclusively dedicated to cross stitch supplies, right across from the Granary (see review). Time passed, and Bev did very well for herself, finding that in this area, there are a LOT of farm wives who like to do something after the housework is done.

Right before the move to the new, larger building downtown, Bev found quilting. It took over her life, and now, the store, too. What was oncce a cross-stitch store has turned into a full-fledged fabric store, carrying colors and patterns never dreamed of by Mother Nature, and certainly not seen on any farm. She has more patterns than anyone else in town, and high-quality supplies -- at relatively low prices. It keeps her customers coming back week after week, some just to oogle the new finished work she displays on her walls, some to buy the latest quilting technology. Either way, the Golden Needle is a fun place to visit, whether for the displays or to buy...or just to listen to Bev talking about her passion.

Once a year, during LaVitsef, there is a quilt show held here, in the back classroom. $4 in donation is required for admittance, and it's worth every penny.