The Time Capsule: “If Gravity Goes” ... a sign of the times

Most towns like to welcome visitors with a sign or emblem that provides a message in addition to a name. Omaha, on Interstate 80, remembers the glory days of railroads. Griswold tells us the year the town was established, Villisca chose a symbol of the pork industry, and Lewis is a “Place to call home.” Lyman (or was it Grant?) used humor with a sign on US 71 telling drivers the next three exits were theirs. That sign is gone now, so apparently someone didn’t find it amusing. Atlantic is the Coca-Cola capital, Clarinda the birthplace of Glenn Miller. Red Oak has
attractive edifices at some approaches, a warning about drunken drivers at another.  (I found it curious the Burma-Shave type series of signs weren’t turned around and put on the other side of the road, a drunk-driver alert for those venturing onto the open highway. That decision makers thought it more important to warn motorists entering town is, I suppose, revealing.)    
My all-time favorite sign of this type is on Highway 148 at the edge of Gravity.
“Sperling’s Best Places,” a travel website, lists the town as a great place but fails to mention the sign. Sperling instead cites economic benefits—the cost of living in Gravity is 30 percent below the national average.  The unemployment rate is also lower. The cost of education per student is less than half that of most major cities, Sperling says, neglecting to mention there’s not a school in town. Winters in Gravity are milder than in Fargo and, while the population of the town is down 29 percent since 2000, this creates opportunities.  “Now,” according to Sperling, “is a good time to buy.”  
I suspect most who know the place, including a fellow I’ll call Bill, find the sign offers more insight than does the internet.   
“If Gravity Goes,” the placard reads, “We All Go.”  
In years past, my work took me there a couple of times, and I returned last summer.  Downtown is now mostly vacant lots. I found only two places of business; a tavern and a roadside vegetable stand. Both were closed the Saturday afternoon I was there.   
North of where the business district had been is a large structure, obviously once a church. A bit run down, there were toys scattered about and, against the outside wall near the main entrance, a coin-operated pop machine.  
While in town I saw only one person, a man walking on the main street. I asked if he had a minute. He was a friendly fellow, but when he learned I was contemplating a magazine article he said he’d be glad to tell me what he knew of the place, but only if I promised not to use his name.  
“Bill” was born on a nearby farm. He works in Bedford and helps his parents farm the home place. The population of Gravity is listed at 147. Bill believes it to be less than that. People leave for various reasons, and he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had actually moved in — unless one counts the family living in the church.  
Bill attended services in that church while growing up. Membership declined, and the place closed. The building sat empty, no buyers to be found, and Bill’s understanding was that it had been all but given away. I said it must be a spacious home. Bill replied that, although he hadn’t been invited in, he was told the master bedroom still featured a row of pews. The bed is about where
weddings and other sacraments had taken place. In the choir’s nook are a TV and recliner. The pastor’s office is a children’s bedroom, and the kitchen can seat 200 or more.   
Bill thought the tavern opened at 5 p.m., and the vegetable stand would do so when there was something to sell. He didn’t know who to credit for the sign, but said it
continues to draw interest.    
I asked Bill what he thought Gravity would look like in 10 years. He laughed and said if the sign was prophetic, we’re all in trouble.