A few years ago my mom and brothers spent the holidays with me in Dubuque. Midnight mass at St. Raphael’s Cathedral was the first item on the holiday agenda.
As mass finished we stepped out of the church onto the hushed snow-covered street where the pretty storefronts lining the street were marked closed and streetlights held their overnight vigils. All was peaceful and nothing but the sound of footsteps could be heard.
Then, from a distance we heard the roar of an engine.
One lit headlight pierced the dark.
A rusted pickup truck screamed down Bluff Street. It fishtailed on ice patches. Empty cans of PBR flew out the back and two young men hollered from the cab. A giant plastic Santa Claus, feet chained and face dragging along the ice and concrete flew by us.
The churchgoers’ jaws dropped, but my brothers laughed all the way back to my parked car. On our way back to my apartment my youngest brother looked up at me and said, “I like Dubuque!”
I like it too.