Heading west on Interstate 70 through Missouri at midday offers many picturesque views of a rural and hilly America. Even with the sun overhead, the chiaroscuro of hills and the occasional tree is evident, and the light lends that golden hue reserved for sunset pastoral scenes in landscape calendars. Everything appears still at seventy-five miles per hour; and though there are many barns, houses, and other structures for a place so remote, there are no people moving about.
The city (or town?) is Emma, MO, and if you don't recall seeing the Welcome sign, it may be that you have already left its legal vicinity. Emma, MO is 0.43 miles in area, all land, and is shaped roughly like a cheap diary's key laid north-south. The drive across the northern end, on I-70, lasted approximately 21 seconds at highway speeds. It is one of those cities where the calculated population density is a larger number than the present population. The post office closed decades before alternative written communications were invented.
Supposedly named after Emma Bemetrio, a local minister's daughter, you may anticipate a story of a father's loving dedication to his daughter; or, perhaps, a show of affection of a suitor who would very much like to offer the world to the one he loves, but only has the funds for a thin slice of Midwestern farmland. And would Emma have stuck around with such a gesture, or make the less than a minute commute on to bigger ventures? What is apparent is that the Interstate was built through it after its founding (fortuitous, or the founder's gamble in buying such a long, thin strip?), and Emma will be remembered by those who travel the road.
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