“Fitzgerald showed this. He was always the guy from the Midwest looking in the window at the Princeton dance. It’s no coincidence that Hemingway was from Oak Park [in Illinois]. You’re never a part of anything if you come from the Midwest.” – Jean Shepherd
In Shepherd’s works, Hohman (his fictionalized version of Hammond), Indiana becomes almost a character in its own right. It clung “to the underbelly of Chicago” the way barnacle clings to boats. It was a rough, industrial city, where “streetcar wires creaked under ice and kids plodded to school through forty-five mile-an-hour gales tilting forward like tiny furred radiator ornaments.” Hohman was a steel town, and he liked to say that there has never been an upper-crust steel town. One had to be tough to make it.
But there was still cause for celebration, especially around the holidays. Downtown Hohman came alive at Christmas; once the curtains hiding the massive toy display at the local Goldblatt’s were opened, the time was set for the giant “Yuletide Jubilee,” and the quest for the Red Ryder BB gun was on (Incidentally, Macy’s in New York re-created scenes from A Christmas Story for their windows in 2003). Peter Scholl, writing in The Great Lakes Review, pointed out that the Indiana council of English teachers had literally put Shepherd “on the map.” In the upper left-hand corner of their Literary Map of Indiana is a boy listening to the radio expectantly. In his hand is a Radio Orphan Annie decoder pin. The “iris-less orphan girl herself is pictured above him, string emptily down [over] Lake Michigan and across the northern steppes of the Hoosier State. Scholl goes on, like so many others, to compare Shepherd to Mark Twain: both were born in and subsequently left the Midwest. But they returned to it in their adult careers, at least in their imaginations. It provided “the raw material for their best stories.”
In a 1966 Newsday article, Shepherd mused on the inherent differences between Midwesterners and Easterners. While comparing himself to JD Salinger (Shepherd was never much into modesty), he wrote that the Midwesterner generally thinks that they are pretty lucky in their circumstances and accepts life for what it is. Conversely, Easterners (whom he stereotyped as being varying degrees of Holden Caulfield) go through life with a certain degree of anger and bitterness. The fact that they have more favorable circumstances of birth gives them a sense of entitlement, matched with bitterness if their wants are not met.
Shepherd left his hometown, moved to the big city, then proceeded to talk about his hometown incessantly. He became a de facto advocate of the small town childhood, and wove it into his stories. In a 2001 Time article, he was pictured as the “hip hick, a defender of the Midwest at the precise moment that America was becoming bicoastal.” Hohman, Indiana, was known by its banality. It was even mentioned as a precursor to The Simpsons’ Springfield. According to Shepherd, the Midwest “swam in a sea of futility…[a]nother name for realism.” Shepherd, the White Sox fan envious of the (relative) success of the Chicago Cubs, inevitably identified with those who “failed most artfully.” The Old Man and Ralphie’s failures are nothing if not artful.
He made repeated mention of his speaking engagements at venues like Princeton University, where his audience showed an almost-anthropological fascination with “flyover country.” They were amused that there were people who actually attended, say, a Kiwanis Club. For his book, In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash, he wrote about returning to his hometown as an urbane, sophisticated New Yorker. His initial reaction was that he “felt like a spy.” Here he was, looking at his old town from the window of a cab. Taking a cab in New York is commonplace; it was almost unheard of in Hohman. The cabbie takes him to the bar owned by his childhood friend Flick, and the two reminisce.
Scholl, in “Jean Shepherd: the Survivor of Hammond,” asserts that Shepherd’s true target was the “cultural elite” who scoffed at the Midwesterner. He was by no means a “disaffected and alienated spirit who lambastes the Hoosier for comic effect. But he does explore the differences between the Easterner he has become and the kid who “survived Hammond” that he was. Appropriately enough, at the end of the article and book, Shepherd eschews the cab, and walks to the nearest bus stop, becoming “a native son” yet again. – Barry Honold