Alma Towns

 

A is for Alma, KS, Alma, AK, Alma, GA, and Alma, me!

I am the only white, young, and non-Mormon Alma that I’ve ever met.

I get called all kinds of variations.

“Elma?”

“Ulma”

“Elmo?”

I never thought it was that difficult, but never underestimate the power of mispronounced vowels.

Once, the lady at a Wendy’s called out “Almond” over the speaker. Sure enough, the name of the nut was written on the receipt.

And unlike Sarahs, Katies, and Maddys, I will never have the opportunity to go to a gas station and buy a souvenir shot glass with my name on it.

Once, when we were kids, my friends and I were on vacation in the mountains with our families. They were all buying matching pocket knives with their names on it (as you do). I wanted to be included, but of course, there were no Almas, so I found one with my last name, Russ.

But the road introduced me to three other Almas in Georgia, Arkansas, and Kansas. 

The Georgia one came first. Our family was taking the backroads home to Florida for Christmas, and we passed through Alma. I got so many pictures with so many signs. I told everyone I was the queen of Alma, Georgia. It was better than a shot glass or a pocket knife.

And then I was driving through Kansas. Folks might say that Kansas is the nothingness you have to get through before you get to the Wild West. I wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted Kansas to be like a quiet, plain friend who you’d get to know, and come to find they secretly have something interesting going on. Maybe Kansas is like a seemingly boring person who is actually a virtuoso at the tuba, or maybe they have a dragon tattoo on their back, and they just haven’t shown you yet. I have driven through Kansas a few times and this has proven to be true. Kansas has secrets to behold.

For me, one of these secrets was Alma, Kansas, only it wasn’t actually a secret at all. There were blaring yellow billboards for a couple of miles. I had no idea what Alma had going on, and little did I care that it was 20 minutes out of the way. I pulled off the interstate.

Alma was nobly called the “City of Native Stone” because apparently it was the prime place to get flint back in the day. The old stone buildings made up the tiny Main Street. No McDonald’s, no Taco Belle, but a little drug store, some churches, a couple rusty gas stations, a diner here and there. The main thing it had going for it was its cheese. There were signs for “Alma Cheese” everywhere. It makes sense that an Alma town would have Alma Cheese, because this Alma right here will eat a block of cheese for a meal. All kinds of cheese, too, from the kind that tastes like plastic to goat cheese, from Velveeta to muenster.

It was good Alma Cheese, too. I got some cheese curds for the road, and the lady in the creamery even told us about her and her husband living in a camper because their house had flooded, so I suppose it rains a lot in Alma. 

Screw shot glasses and pocket knives. I got a shirt with “Alma” on the front and back. It was all I’d ever wanted.

The last Alma I stopped at was  Alma, Arkansas. I was on my way back east on that same trip, and I drove another 20 minutes out of the way to see my 3rd Alma, because then I’d have been in more Alma towns than I had met Alma gals. I got a picture of an old fire truck that said Alma on it.

One thing that all these Alma towns had in common was that, when I told the locals my name was Alma, they’d all recall another girl named Alma who’d passed through.

“Oh yeah, I’d met another girl named Alma who passed through a while back, she was almost as excited about it as you are.”

So Alma gal, maybe one day we will meet in an Alma town. Maybe our names will connect us somehow. There could be similar life stories we may share. Maybe there will be telecommunication involved. Who knows. 

Let me know if you find yourself a gas station shot glass.