Fancy Flats

It could be any small Midwestern town. This one was nearly geographically mid-America-San Diego was near fifteen hundred miles west and New York slightly over fifteen hundred miles east, but it had nothing in common with one or the other.

Fancy Flats had little in common with the rest of the world, nor was it fancy, but flat it was. A sweep of the horizon with ones eye proved that. The bucolic small town surrounded by ranches was a welcome sight to those motorists who traveled east to west, and west to east, but that was before Interstate 80 was built.

Now it was simply white letters on a green background, completely out of sight of the motorist. Even the seams in the concrete of the Fancy Flats exit ramp had been able to grow vegetation. Yes, Fancy Flats, like many other small cities and villages, at first appeared to be dying on the vine; but there was one difference between Fancy Flats and the others: its inhabitantsblood of pioneers and Native Americans flowed through their veins. It could be seen in their work ethics, their stick-to-it till the job is done, their honesty, and their humor. Yes, they were of hardy stock. Their ancestors had weathered hard times, depression, and a drought. In doing so, they had learned the value of a dollar, how to get the most out of it, and subsequently, keep more of them for another day. The people of Fancy Flats had managed over the years to keep their share, perhaps a bit more.