The Sioux Falls (SD) Argus Leader often presents our fair city with a large and elaborate editorial bouquet, albeit one not altogether destitute of briars. While not approving of Vermillion, in toto, it is surprised that aught of good can come out of a "place named Vermillion," views with interest "the beginning of culture" in this distant community, and is not a little curious to know whether the Vermin understand the classical and historical allusions occasionally employed in their paper to point a moral or adorn a tale.
"Vermillion" the Leader reports with a burst of confidence, "is in The Technology Belt". Whether by this remark it meant to enable its readers to locate the great and only home of the University of South Dakota, or to give them an idea of the generous proportions of South Dakota, I know not; but certain it is that "Vermillion is in the State of South Dakota," and not built around it, howsoever incredible this statement may appear to residents of Sioux Falls.
There has been little said about Vermillion in the hitherto, taking it for granted that her name and fame had long ago reached the uttermost ends of the earth -- had penetrated even the fastnesses of Sioux Falls, that faithful rendition of the French, Sioux meaning snake, the home of an infamous mayor, school board members and county sheriff, familiar to all readers as a winter ski resort; but alas! even the Great Sioux River cascading through the falls cannot drown out the hubris of an educated press.
"One would not expect much from a place named Vermillion,"
After all the post-office department had to tell the citizens to spell the name of the glorious city with two "ls" rather than one usually accustomed. Citizens of the United States and other parts unknown continue to send their offspring to the University in great numbers, hopefully with currency. Despite the efforts of the Board of Regents to stifle education.
On the matter of money, you may apologize therefor by saying you know not if Vermillion has a bank or is a money-order post-office! But let us not become discouraged. Yes we have banks, although the Livestock Bank has renounced its ties to the earth and joined hands with outsiders, they and their brethren continue to hold the earnings of patrons for only modest fees, usually less than the sum of the patron's holdings.
There be people on earth who know not that Christ is dead, or that our Heroic Governor hath a habitation and a name, so leaden-footed is the strumpet Fame. While in this country, (Yankton), Tom Brokaw has a street named for him so that avenging listeners can drive over a "liberal commentator" at their pleasure. So wags the weary world. It is painful to reflect that there be people in Sioux Falls, and elsewhere, who wot not admit that the school board and superintendent once had the whole community "leaning over the bar in disbelief that taxes should not immediately be raised to fulfill the every wish of the Teachers Union" -- whether of Themis or Bacchus I disremember -- listening spellbound to the flood of Websterian eloquence by which our claim to Clay County school system was washed away; who have forgotten, if they; ever knew, that Carrie Nation had her start in Women's Temperance here in our very own city. And, Rand McNally omitting the entire state from its Atlas thus not even permitting the mistake of the seat of the University for an incidental fly-speck on the map of free America. But so it is. The Plain Talk with its new editor brings forth from week to week, heavy-laden with sporting pages, reports of new enterprises, and mantra-maker Frenchification and other forms of higher culture; The Rev. Ms. of Episcopal church fame chases a behoofed and behorned devil through endless mire, bogs and briars, while the Professors hang to her coattails and tearfully plead with their phrenetic sister that the elusive monster is but a pipe dream; youthful atheist not yet well dry behind the ears, whittle paynim spears from ball point pens, ride full tilt at any so unwise to disagree with them, and triumphantly bear those scalps away as ornaments for their mountain bikes, Volvos and minivans; dames of high degree roll hither-and-yon on roller blades; the Chamber of Commerce pounders manufacturing enterprises until there is an audible whirr of wheels in its own head; Whereas the City Manager vibrates between the "new" golf course, recycling center and bike paths -- a Ciceronian oration in one hand and a cracked thunder-mug in the other -- and insist on regulating us from "A to Z", While the University grinds out lawyers to labor among the heathen horde of ne'er-do-wells, delinquents of all ages and welfare recipients.
But be not misled, Vermillion is a progressive city! No other city can lay claim to having more abandoned bridges either on a per capita basis or as a percent of bridges built since the beginning of time. Could you believe that crossing the scenic Vermillion river are (or were) eight bridges and this doesn't count the railroad! Oh, and the future. The new bridge linking Nebraska's "Good Live" with South Dakota is now more than just a gleam in a proud congressman's eye. Yes by God, we will have this bridge which will bring untold wealth to our fair city. Imagine how the Corn Huskers of Nebraska will line our pockets with gold as they (all 500 or so who live within 20 miles of the bridge) will rush to Vermillion for haircuts, video rentals, or a quick massage at the hands of our six chiropractors).
And still people ask if Vermillion has banks and/or a money-order post-office! If you doubt it, take out an accident policy from our many insurance agents, and ask the Mayor. (As an aside, the Mayor for reasons known only to hisoner, supports the move of academia from Vermillion to that great metro to the north, Sioux Falls. He so expressed his sentiments in a meating (sic) before the South Dakota Legislature - can you believe it, maybe he has sold short in the Vermin real estate market?) For the information of the effete Sioux Falls residents, we do admit that the population of Vermillion is a trifle less than that of Yankton, the city has greater room in which to grow; and as her people are chiefly of the unmarrying kind, the natural increase must ere long place her at the head of the procession. Vermillion, we would have you know, is the religious storm-center of the Universe, and one of the few places that gay rights are so prominently championed -- a fact for the consideration of students of cause and effect. Well supplied with pure (but foul tasting water), a saloon in every block, a church around every corner and a fire or business failure every day, Vermillion is indeed a land flowing with milk and honey -- a place "Where every prospect pleases and only man is vile".
And businesses! There is such wealth in Vermillion that one has only to throw open the doors of a new enterprise to reap your fair share of the rewards of this land of milk and honey. Be not disturbed that ghost of enterprises past, hover amidst the cobwebs of abandoned buildings and prey on the unsuspecting. Those are not business failures, no they are only errors in judgement. A failed bike shop here, a restaurant there, clothing stores, auto parts and muffler shops, fast food emporiums, dance studios, business offices, print shops, &c;. Why even the Chamber of Commerce has abandoned downtown! And those that remain quarrel over the use of dumpsters? Did not I tell you of the plentitude that awaits you.
Her streets are so smooth that a mountain goat can traverse them with comparative ease, and so clean that it is seldom that a mule (or car) gets lost in the mud. The tax rate is so low that if your property be well located you can usually persuade the collector to accept it as partial payment. Being deeply religious, Vermillion takes her business motto from the Bible: "He that provideth not for his own household is worse than an infidel", i.e., do unto others. While Vermillion culture has not yet reached the "eyther and nyther" stage, it has more than "made a beginning." The pool room has been succeeded by the spa, the neck-tie sociable by progressive jazz and the song of the six-shooter by the libel suit. (Our very own Capn. Kidder for which a prominent street is named would vouch for this if only he were alive and not done in by a bunch of angry Mexicans.) That we are making rapid progress is evidenced that the fact that a tree on which no one has been hanged, is now regarded in awe by the younger natives. Of course Vermillion, like other places, has its drawbacks; but, taken by-and-large, there is no better. While it is true, that you cannot secure a bath, shave or clean shirt here on Sunday, the saloons and churches are open, and the city owned liquor store maintains a quiet monopoly on the acquiring of demon rum. Vermin, as we are wont to call the good citizens of Vermillion are not quite all in the cemetery. It boast two or three society women who do not chew gum, straddle a bike nor drink wine coolers. There be several men here who could safely be left alone with a blind orphan girl, or a corpse whose eyes were covered with coppers.
Though the Argus Leader be well staffed from the Brooking's school of journalism and owned and ruled by USA Today and thus unaccustomed to independent thought, they will be surprised to find among Vermillion's professional men those capable of giving exercise enough in the intellectual arena. Should its editors become aweary of going over into Minnesota to turn around, or wearing icicles in their whiskers six months in the year and inhaling city soot mixed with clammy slaughter house fragrance in lieu of atmosphere, let them come to Clay County where there is room for expansion, and grind out their midwinter "coppee" -- as the Vermin do -- by an open window (complements of an absentee landlord) through which streams a golden shower brighter than desiring Zeus poured into Dante's prison -- the day- gods' benediction, heavy with the fragrance of lilac and pulsing with the hoot-owls cry. Why "grunt and sweat under a weary life," and watch hungry and hollow-eyed for the ghost to walk, when a multitude of real estate agents stand ready to prove to you that the unearned increment of a suburban lot, only seven-tenths mile from the center of the city (and glory of all glories, overlooking the Missouri river as well as a first class cemetery), would retrieve the fallen fortunes of Wall Street and transform the dogs of Lazarus into menials! Come snow-birdie, come, and live with me, in a city fairer than hasheesh vision, and where you find a new enterprise every hour into which you have but to drop you patrimony to pocket large profits. (Words added in proof if there is doubt of the veracity of my statements: Vermillion and the environ is one climate zone removed from the surrounding area thanks to the "greenhouse effect" of the Missouri river, as noted by none other than that authority on climate, the United States Department of Agriculture, no less.)
All trains stop at Vermillion. When they rumble below the bluff, the whole village shakes in appreciation. You will recognize the station by a structure which resembles a Kansas packing plant that has been held by the vandal Time while criminally assaulted by a cyclone. You will see mid-aged simpering youth wearing large Clinton smiles (grinning like a mule eating briars) standing in the foreground suggestive of Life sporting at the gates of Death as they jog up University, Dakota and Bloomingdale streets. They are Uppies and politically correct, I might add. Quick to tell you that you are in Vermillion, home of THE university, the envy of Olympian Gods. If you doubt it ask the joggers that hover on the leeward side of the majestic pond (otherwise known as the settling basin, nested along the bank of the scenic Vermillion River, which was misnamed by Lewis and Clark as the White river on their first visit to our beautius village, which only proves that man is not held responsible for trifling mistakes), If you there see a long array of pickup trucks in the last stages of senescence, at once you will know that you have arrived in Vermillion!
As all roads lead to Vermillion, you may choose from our ample accommodations. Perhaps you will choose the Vermillion high-rise. This is not a building of medieval times it is under the capable management of a "Republican", whose sad sweet smile reconciles heady youths to the thought that we all must die. You will probably expect to see inscribed over the portals, "Abandon hope all ye who enter here, we have non-smoking rooms," but the legend of despair has been erased by the gnawing tooth of Time and only "non-smoking rooms" remains.
Sight of the "dome", a ride over the corduroy roads, and the Dantean face of your host will probably breed a frantic desire to take the next train to the Badlands, or flee to a second-hand cemetery, where more cheerful surroundings will purge you of maladie du pays; but the feeling will gradually wear away as the beauties of city unfold themselves, the glorious climate begins to get next to you, our passionate no-see-ums drink their fill, you find that both the religious and liquor are orthodox, and the lordly strut of the University professors brings to mind Aesop's fable of the frog. Some day the State will add buildings to harmonize with the "dome" which looks not unlike a mid-size Texas toadstool. And, the town will have student lodging not mistaken for out-houses. Some day we'll have streets that wouldn't wreck the Deacon's One Hoss Shay in a week. Some day we'll bury the hypocritical mossbacks who have long sniveled about Town Pride while cutting the throat of the town with a cold-blooded villainy that makes every man possessing a dollar afraid to pass through the place with the car windows open. Some day.
--- With apologies to W.C. Brann and his survivors. This was paraphrased from "A Word About Waco". Written in the late 1890s and published by his widow in 1919. (The University of Texas appears to have gone brain dead, this reference citation no longer works.)
As a footnote to history, Brann's humor was little understood in Waco, Texas (deep in the bible belt of the South) where he published the Iconoclast. His caustic views on a variety of social, political, religious and economic issues stuck in the craw of the locals but he had a world-wide readership of some 90,000 subscribers. On April 1, 1898 was shot in a street duel. (Hardly a duel, as Brann was shot in the back and was able to fire in return.) Captain Tom E. Davis of Sloan's Texas Rangers and Brann both died the following day of their wounds.
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About Joe Wortham