Behind the Puddle

There really isn’t a grand story behind the name Behind the Puddle.

It came from directions.

I grew up in Nevada, Iowa, and like most people who grew up here, I learned to give directions the Midwestern way, not necessarily by street names and house numbers, but by landmarks, old names, and places everyone is somehow expected to remember.

Most of Nevada sits north of Highway 30. South of Highway 30 is a little less familiar to people, especially the Krupp City Addition where we live.

So when someone asks where our house is, I usually explain it something like this:

“We’re south of Highway 30 on the west end of Nevada. Get off onto Maple Avenue; you know where Gaslight Village used to be? It’s Country Club Estates now. Follow Maple Avenue around, cross the puddle, and we’re the second house behind the puddle on Lake Shore Drive.”

And somehow, everyone understands.

Lake Shore Drive itself doesn’t go anywhere.

You come into the neighborhood on Maple Avenue, loop around Lake Shore Drive, and eventually leave again the same way you came in.

Along the way, you might have to wait for the geese to cross the road, or more accurately, lallygag across it as though they have nowhere else to be.

You might pass someone walking a dog.

You might even meet Charlie, one of the neighborhood’s favorite little dogs.

You cross the puddle when you come in.

You cross it again when you leave.

And if you are coming to our house, you simply drive around until you reach the second house on the right.

The house behind the puddle.

When I started writing stories from the patio about the birds, the geese, the herons, Pinecone, the changing water, the neighbors, and all the little things I was beginning to notice, I needed something to call them.

I didn’t have to think very hard.

I was already sitting behind the puddle.

So that became the name.

Behind the Puddle.

Not because it sounded poetic.

Not because it was part of a branding plan.

Mostly because that is how you get here.

And somewhere along the way, a simple set of directions became a pretty good description of the place where these stories come from, too.