Iowa Nice

Last week, I baked cookies and sent the rest with Mr. Darcy to his office. That night, he reported that the pile of cookies quickly reduced to just one. And that lone cookie remained for hours.

“Well, sure, no one wanted to take the last cookie,” I said. You never take the last piece of fried chicken, or cornbread, the last biscuit. You just don’t.

Somewhere between sugar cookie and shortbread.

“It’s more of that Iowa thing,” he replied, shaking his head.

Before we moved here, we were told by two different people with Iowa roots—in almost the same words—“Iowans are a people absolutely without guile.” They talked about the friendliness, the trusting nature, and the civility.

It is called Iowa Nice. When caucus time comes around, Iowa expects the politicians not to act ugly.

One explanation given for Iowa Nice is that, because Iowa has relatively sparse population, “every person is precious.” You want to be pleasant because you don’t know when you’ll see another human being.

Yesterday the massage therapist I saw put it another way: Iowa is a land of small towns and it doesn’t pay to be disagreeable with people you have to live with for the next 60 years. “It’s how you’re raised,” she said. “Treat people how you’d want to be treated.”

The Golden Rule in the land of golden corn.

The man who became our landlord said he liked us and was going with his gut rather than undertake credit and reference checks. Iowa Nice is noticeable in the attitude of store clerks and bank tellers. They’re just helpful and cheery. In my previous state, I encountered too many people in the service industry who were either downright surly or nearly comatose. No amount of charm had any effect.

So perhaps we’ve moved to a land of congenial people. We’re told that some Iowans who move away become so wearied by the world that they just come back home.

And what of the solitary cookie? Mr. Darcy finally ate it.