This article was one of my dad’s favorites from his 5 years of travel publishing Slow Lane Journal. It was originally written in July 1991, and may be the first of many articles from SLJ that we republish here without permission.

My grown sons, Dan and Steven, were camping with me in Council Bluffs when the sharp-eyed Dan found an Iowa town that had a certain appeal to us. It was McClelland. and it wasn’t far away.

Taking roads that didn’t make our map, some of them gravel, we came to a small crossroads. A woman was atop a sit-down mower doing one of her many chores. She came to our aid, giving us good directions to little-known McClelland. A couple more turns, more gravel roads, and we were there. We found a farm town of 160–give or take a few.

After a photo session by the town’s welcome sign in a cute park, we were so nervous we needed relief, spelled Men’s Room. To our amazement there was a properly identified facility just a few feet away.

The McClelland park john turned out to be a traditional outhouse. No flushing necessary. We had arrived.

We walked a full block to the heart of our town. Traffic was light so we ambled right down the middle of the street.

Dan met Fred Hollister, president of McClelland Feed and Grain. Fred gave us souvenir caps with the company logo–and our name–on them.
We mailed a few postcards from the local post office to have our namesake town cancelled on them.

Dan and Steve talked with some children and their “dumb dog” until their mother called them home. Steve guessed the local kids should know better than to talk to strangers who claim their name is McClelland.

Most of the action took place in Dew Drop Inn. It was not an inn at all. It used to be a hardware store. To survive, the hardware turned to entertainment, switching to providing food and beverage. It was now a basic eatery and tavern, nothing fancy.

Inside Dew Drop Inn, enough old codgers had dropped in to fill the place to 30 percent occupancy. Not bad for mid-morning. A trio of local men played gin rummy, risking two-bits a hand. None of the rummy players was under 60. All wore coveralls and caps.

The only people named McClelland when we strolled into our town were us.

We were told that some guy, maybe named Bill McClelland, had the town named after him. No one in the Dew Drop Inn knew for certain.

There wasn’t much to do or see, but the McClellands from California were, nonetheless, secretly excited and very curious.

It was a busy town in the early 1900s, we were told. On our visit, our town was bustling with nothing more than a card game at the once booming hardware store.

McClelland was everything we could have imagined–and less.

If we return we may try to buy the place.