I promised you a postcard.
At the end of last week’s column, I said I’d send you one from our season’s first camping trip to Door County, Wisconsin. I can’t help but mourn the slow death of the picture postcard, but the advent of texting and email has made a scribbled note on the back of a pretty picture nearly a thing of the past for many. But I still admire the sheer poetry of a well-written postcard that combines a striking image with a quick, pithy story about a memorable day and place.
Door County is one of those places for me; a place “discovered,” so to speak, by my family long ago after another Wisconsin resort didn’t pan out as advertised, causing my usually patient father to pile us all back into the car and head north until we arrived at the vacation spot we would make our own year after year.
I couldn’t send each and every one of you your very own postcard, but I can share snippets of some of the sights we saw along the way.
My postcard message from an early part of the trip might read something like this:
“The washing of the waves, the crashing of the atoms.”
Our map indicated a benign-sounding place called the Point Beach Energy Center while we worked our way along a deserted road up a pristine stretch of Lake Michigan shoreline north of Milwaukee.
She: “Ooh, maybe it’s an offshore wind farm.”
Me: “Or maybe it’s a combination of wave and solar energy.”
Or maybe not.
The sight of an ominous-looking nuclear cooling tower and a clearly stated No Trespassing sign at the end of a dead-end, fenced-off coastal road cleared up that misunderstanding in a hurry, with a sudden sense of foreboding for those of us who can well remember Three Mile Island and Chernobyl and otherwise respect the thought of armed guards and well-trained attack dogs.
“Give me wind, sun and waves anytime,” I thought. as we beat our way back through the woods and onto another northbound road.
Our entrance into Door County and the quaint village that is home to the State Park that was our destination provided another kind of visual/verbal message, as we crested the hill looking down towards the beautiful lakeside town.
Me: “Aah, Fish Creek.”
She: “Aah, rain.”
Yes, it started raining as we arrived at our campsite, which resulted in yet another cunning portrait of northwoods fun, as one of us gamely tried to prove to the other that a devilish dome-style tent can be erected in a driving rain without soaking the inside as much as the outer fabric.
It can’t of course.
I wrestled and cursed the thing in a mud-and-sand-covered spectacle that made me look more like a wounded, wing-shot mallard crawling for cover than the resourceful, backwoodsman I was trying to portray. She, on the other hand, proved her superior maturity level by not laughing (out loud, at least) and limiting her comments to a single question:
“Is it supposed to look that way?”
Eventually, it did look the way it was supposed to look and after a dampish slumber, we set off to do something we’ve always meant to do while in Door County. Al Johnson’s Restaurant is an icon to all things Swedish, with a menu containing a wide array of Scandinavian dishes and a grass-covered roof that features real-live goats happily grazing away.
As a Bishop Hill descendent, I felt compelled to try and compare the Swedish pancakes. And I wanted to see the goats.
“It’ll be like that movie. You know, ‘Swedes Staring at Goats,’” I said blithely as we rolled into Sister Bay, the home of the restaurant.
But it was still raining.
No goats.
“I always thought goats were pretty sure-footed,” I mused, while looking around for a “watch out for sliding goats”sign.
“I guess we can check this one off the bucket list,” she muttered.
The skies cleared and we settled into a relaxed, idyllic rhythm that did a better job of matching the postcard-perfect days we had hoped for. We hiked shorelines, We biked wooded trails. We traveled by ferry to an island park and picked cherries by the bucketful in the lush orchards that dot the county. Realizing it was just another three hours north to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, we headed that way, sharing cherries and a day on the beach with my sister and her husband, kids and grandkids, who have made Lake Superior their backyard for over 40 years.
We zig-zagged home through Wisconsin, following the compass more than any map, heading west, then south, then west again, while stopping in pretty little lake towns for ice cream and a look around, then driving through the hills and herds of dairy farms that fill the middle of the state.
I enjoyed the view. I enjoyed the company. And I realized that every day can be like a postcard.
Some we send and share in every way we can. And some we tuck away to treasure and remember.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Even after the rocket's red glare
The Fourth of July is a big day in my hometown of Galva. Our hard-working Freedom Fest committee puts together an amazing lineup of fun, food and fireworks that starts early and ends late. One of the earliest mornings, latest nights and busiest days takes place right on my front porch, which is Holiday Ground Zero for many friends and family members, as we pack the big, wraparound structure with enough food to feed the continental army in a tradition that has lasted many years, with shade and a bit of breeze on the hot, sunny days and shelter for the rainy ones. Our across-the-street proximity to busy Wiley Park makes our locale a prime spot to watch the parade, visit fellow revelers and, otherwise, take a relaxing break from the all-day whirlwind that is Galva’s Fourth.
Or at least that’s what they tell me.
I am, you see, a busy guy myself on the Fourth, both because of my responsibilities as a Star Courier camera-slinger, and because of a lengthy list of Indendence-Day duties I’ve managed to pile up over the years. So, despite the fact that I am one of the hosts of our annual fete, I am often missing in action.
This year’s buzz-around started with photos of the annual kids fun run and 5K road race (which starts and ends across the street), plus a quick park-wide search for photo ops at events ranging from the penny scramble and art jam, to the world-famous cow bingo contest and the beginnings of the antique tractor show. Though it was my morning to play Mass music at St. John’s Church, Father John Burns traded me to the Galva Ministerial Association for six hymnals and a lector to be named later so that I could provide the music for the community church service in the park. This required my first clothing swap in a day that would see me make more quick costume changes than a Las Vegas diva.
She: Wear that new shirt I got you for church, then change into your other outfit for the parade.
Now, I wear clothes. And sometimes they even match and/or go together. But I don’t wear anything that could or should ever be described as an outfit. But I knew what she meant and followed instructions, as she was now busy meeting and greeting the first serious wave of porch party guests.
The rest of the day included stints hauling sound equipment and serving as emcee for both the Freedom Fest parade and talent show.
I remember listening to other announcers over the years; guys like the late, great Chuck Hay, who sounded cool, collected and fun-loving as they told me everything I ever wanted to know. I don’t know about them, but I’m generally faking it, battling as I am against notes-threatening breezes, last-minute line-up changes and an inexplicable inability to sort out the mass of politicians, beauty queens, dance groups, singers and vintage tractors I encounter between the two events.
Eventually, I was free to return to the porch-front for awhile before making the trek to the Galva Park District for our city’s amazing fireworks show. I’m often a little pooped by the time dusk rolls around, but the sheer energy of that astonishing display always reenergizes me, making me glad to be there, in Galva, Illinois, USA.
My hometown.
++++++++++
Another high point of the holiday weekend was the 100th birthday of my dad’s cousin Helen. She’s the last of five first cousins, including dad, who were the grandchildren of a Bishop Hill Colony girl and a Swedish immigrant railroad worker. Many Christmases and other important events were spent in the company of those cousins and their families. Now, Helen is the only member of that generation left, a distinction she carries with grace, good humor and continued independence.
++++++++++
The camping box is out of the basement and back in the vehicle where it belongs as we plan our first tent outing of the summer. Door County is the destination, with a couple of days scheduled in breathtaking Peninsula State Park, and several ideas percolating for how we’re going to get there and back. I’ll send you a postcard of sorts.
Or at least that’s what they tell me.
I am, you see, a busy guy myself on the Fourth, both because of my responsibilities as a Star Courier camera-slinger, and because of a lengthy list of Indendence-Day duties I’ve managed to pile up over the years. So, despite the fact that I am one of the hosts of our annual fete, I am often missing in action.
This year’s buzz-around started with photos of the annual kids fun run and 5K road race (which starts and ends across the street), plus a quick park-wide search for photo ops at events ranging from the penny scramble and art jam, to the world-famous cow bingo contest and the beginnings of the antique tractor show. Though it was my morning to play Mass music at St. John’s Church, Father John Burns traded me to the Galva Ministerial Association for six hymnals and a lector to be named later so that I could provide the music for the community church service in the park. This required my first clothing swap in a day that would see me make more quick costume changes than a Las Vegas diva.
She: Wear that new shirt I got you for church, then change into your other outfit for the parade.
Now, I wear clothes. And sometimes they even match and/or go together. But I don’t wear anything that could or should ever be described as an outfit. But I knew what she meant and followed instructions, as she was now busy meeting and greeting the first serious wave of porch party guests.
The rest of the day included stints hauling sound equipment and serving as emcee for both the Freedom Fest parade and talent show.
I remember listening to other announcers over the years; guys like the late, great Chuck Hay, who sounded cool, collected and fun-loving as they told me everything I ever wanted to know. I don’t know about them, but I’m generally faking it, battling as I am against notes-threatening breezes, last-minute line-up changes and an inexplicable inability to sort out the mass of politicians, beauty queens, dance groups, singers and vintage tractors I encounter between the two events.
Eventually, I was free to return to the porch-front for awhile before making the trek to the Galva Park District for our city’s amazing fireworks show. I’m often a little pooped by the time dusk rolls around, but the sheer energy of that astonishing display always reenergizes me, making me glad to be there, in Galva, Illinois, USA.
My hometown.
++++++++++
Another high point of the holiday weekend was the 100th birthday of my dad’s cousin Helen. She’s the last of five first cousins, including dad, who were the grandchildren of a Bishop Hill Colony girl and a Swedish immigrant railroad worker. Many Christmases and other important events were spent in the company of those cousins and their families. Now, Helen is the only member of that generation left, a distinction she carries with grace, good humor and continued independence.
++++++++++
The camping box is out of the basement and back in the vehicle where it belongs as we plan our first tent outing of the summer. Door County is the destination, with a couple of days scheduled in breathtaking Peninsula State Park, and several ideas percolating for how we’re going to get there and back. I’ll send you a postcard of sorts.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Another Kind of Freedom
We’ll celebrate our national day of independence this Sunday, which made me hope I could write a little bit about some of the freedoms we all share as citizens of this country. But as often happens, the day-to-day events surrounding me have driven my mind down an alternate highway, with some thoughts on a different, but equally compelling kind of personal freedom on my mind.
I spent an enjoyable day serving as emcee for the annual Bishop Hill Midsommar Music Festival last Saturday. It’s always a fun one for me, with the chance to meet and greet old musician friends, and get to know some new ones, as well.
This year’s lineup began with Galesburg singer/guitarist John Heasley, with his traditional folk group, Morningstar. I got a large charge out of the Templeton Family, a bluegrass/Gospel band that includes mom and dad on bass and fiddle, along with eight talented kids. Three of the boys, aged 15, 13 and 10, share frontman duties and play banjo, mandolin and guitar with a skill that makes this old guitarist wish he had practiced harder when he was their age. Musician/historian Chris Vallillo displayed the talent and knowledge that has made him the Smithsonian Institute’s Illinois Scholar on the subject of “roots music” this year, and the Blackhawk pipes and drums gave the sleepy Swedish village a powerful taste of the Scotch highlands.
But the performer I connected with most was a fellow named Mark Dvorak, a Chicago native who spends all his time sharing his love and knowledge of traditional folk music with anyone who’s willing to sit down and listen.
“What’s your day job?” I asked him after he played, knowing full well that many musicians find it hard to live on music alone and are forced to find additional employment to make ends meet..
“This is,” he said, gesturing to the gazebo/stage where he had just performed to an appreciative crowd.
“You can make a living at this,” he continued. “You just can’t make a killing.”
But I don’t think he cares.
And that was the start of this story.
It’s not just because he’s talented, though he is, with a fine, clear voice, some excellent picking on both guitar and banjo, and a repertoire that covers just about everything important in his folky genre.
It is, in fact, his whole happy approach to what he’s done with his life that caught my attention. Most of us make “life’s work” decisions based on a combination of passion and ambition, with the latter often overwhelming the former when it all comes down to it, because it’s so very easy to confuse monetary success with happiness.
We all do it.
Mark Dvorak doesn’t.
Instead, for over three decades, he has pursued his passion and his very heart’s desire as a modern-day troubadour who is happy--overjoyed, in fact--to travel the United States and different parts of the world with nothing more than his voice, a guitar and banjo, and an undying love for traditional American music and the people he shares it with.
He’s played the big cities and concert halls.
He’s played small towns and out-of-the way venues.
But it doesn’t seem to matter where, as long as he he’s playing his music and singing his songs.
When he’s not on the road, he shares his love for his craft and its roots and traditions as a teacher at the world-renowned Chicago Old Town School of Folk Music.
“I look at this music as a great gift. Not everybody can do it,” he said. “It lets me connect with all kinds of people. And the people I meet are nice people.”
Seeing him perform, it’s clear that he loves what he’s doing.
You can see it in his face. You can hear it in his voice.
The result, for me, at least, was a sense of awe, admiration and flat-out, right-back-at-you joy at the sight of a man who seems to be doing just what he was meant to do and is kind of overwhelmed at the chance to do it.
That’s a special kind of freedom.
“It’s not like working just for money,” he said.
“No, indeed,” I thought.
And that’s why it made my day.
I spent an enjoyable day serving as emcee for the annual Bishop Hill Midsommar Music Festival last Saturday. It’s always a fun one for me, with the chance to meet and greet old musician friends, and get to know some new ones, as well.
This year’s lineup began with Galesburg singer/guitarist John Heasley, with his traditional folk group, Morningstar. I got a large charge out of the Templeton Family, a bluegrass/Gospel band that includes mom and dad on bass and fiddle, along with eight talented kids. Three of the boys, aged 15, 13 and 10, share frontman duties and play banjo, mandolin and guitar with a skill that makes this old guitarist wish he had practiced harder when he was their age. Musician/historian Chris Vallillo displayed the talent and knowledge that has made him the Smithsonian Institute’s Illinois Scholar on the subject of “roots music” this year, and the Blackhawk pipes and drums gave the sleepy Swedish village a powerful taste of the Scotch highlands.
But the performer I connected with most was a fellow named Mark Dvorak, a Chicago native who spends all his time sharing his love and knowledge of traditional folk music with anyone who’s willing to sit down and listen.
“What’s your day job?” I asked him after he played, knowing full well that many musicians find it hard to live on music alone and are forced to find additional employment to make ends meet..
“This is,” he said, gesturing to the gazebo/stage where he had just performed to an appreciative crowd.
“You can make a living at this,” he continued. “You just can’t make a killing.”
But I don’t think he cares.
And that was the start of this story.
It’s not just because he’s talented, though he is, with a fine, clear voice, some excellent picking on both guitar and banjo, and a repertoire that covers just about everything important in his folky genre.
It is, in fact, his whole happy approach to what he’s done with his life that caught my attention. Most of us make “life’s work” decisions based on a combination of passion and ambition, with the latter often overwhelming the former when it all comes down to it, because it’s so very easy to confuse monetary success with happiness.
We all do it.
Mark Dvorak doesn’t.
Instead, for over three decades, he has pursued his passion and his very heart’s desire as a modern-day troubadour who is happy--overjoyed, in fact--to travel the United States and different parts of the world with nothing more than his voice, a guitar and banjo, and an undying love for traditional American music and the people he shares it with.
He’s played the big cities and concert halls.
He’s played small towns and out-of-the way venues.
But it doesn’t seem to matter where, as long as he he’s playing his music and singing his songs.
When he’s not on the road, he shares his love for his craft and its roots and traditions as a teacher at the world-renowned Chicago Old Town School of Folk Music.
“I look at this music as a great gift. Not everybody can do it,” he said. “It lets me connect with all kinds of people. And the people I meet are nice people.”
Seeing him perform, it’s clear that he loves what he’s doing.
You can see it in his face. You can hear it in his voice.
The result, for me, at least, was a sense of awe, admiration and flat-out, right-back-at-you joy at the sight of a man who seems to be doing just what he was meant to do and is kind of overwhelmed at the chance to do it.
That’s a special kind of freedom.
“It’s not like working just for money,” he said.
“No, indeed,” I thought.
And that’s why it made my day.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tears from Heaven
I woke up Tuesday morning with something on my mind:
This column.
I wondered what the heck I would write about this week.
I don’t get stuck too often, but I had been struggling for a topic, waffling between some post-Father’s Day musings or an unsurprising commentary on the crummy weather we’ve been experiencing lately.
Neither exactly tripped my trigger for some reason.
The house was quiet as I worked my way downstairs. Last week, my wife hitched a roundtrip ride with some friends to North Carolina, where she is joyfully enjoying the company of two of our grandsons. My current housemate, Max, the striped-tailed cat, was still dozing on the front porch after an evening dodging raccoons and sparring with Big Taffy, his fat-cat nemesis from across the way.
It was, I figured, a good time to sit on the porch, sip a cup of coffee and glance through my morning Star Courier while I thought of something to say.
It didn’t take long.
The obituary page offered the news that two long-time friends had recently died.
Dave Costenson was a friend since high school, a happy-go-lucky, big-hearted guy who, back then, ignored the rule that said Kewanee guys weren’t supposed to get along with Galva guys and became a pal.
Ruby Lang was one of my mother’s bridge-playing buddies. She was a lot younger than mom, but she always enjoyed Ruby’s vivacious good looks, her upbeat outlook on life and her wonderful laugh; attributes I came to appreciate, too, as I got old enough to know better.
Both died of cancer.
Both died too soon.
“Why do people have to die? ” I said, startling Max, who had crawled into my lap and thought we were alone.
The answer is, I don’t exactly know. Neither does Max.
But I do know this:
I know that faith gives us an answer we can try to accept, even when it’s hard. And I believe that the life we lead now is only a preliminary for the life we’re getting ready for.
I think Coach Cos would go along with a sports analogy that goes kind of of like this:
Life on earth is just a practice session for the big show to come.
Work hard. Be ready.
And Ruby would probably agree that you play every hand you’re dealt with grace, joy and love.
But what about those who are left behind when a loved one dies? What about the spouses, children, other family members and friends who hang onto that person with an undying mixture of love, memories, tears and laughter?
I think it’s supposed to be that way.
I think souls are like kites that fly best when they stay connected--even by a delicate string--to the lives and loves they shared on earth. They dance in the breeze, beautiful and free and still a part of us forever.
I didn’t know how I’d end this story until a sudden shower broke the silence of my morning on the porch.
“Hmmm,” I thought. “Tears from heaven.”
Max looked up at me and I thought again.
“Tears of joy.”
This column.
I wondered what the heck I would write about this week.
I don’t get stuck too often, but I had been struggling for a topic, waffling between some post-Father’s Day musings or an unsurprising commentary on the crummy weather we’ve been experiencing lately.
Neither exactly tripped my trigger for some reason.
The house was quiet as I worked my way downstairs. Last week, my wife hitched a roundtrip ride with some friends to North Carolina, where she is joyfully enjoying the company of two of our grandsons. My current housemate, Max, the striped-tailed cat, was still dozing on the front porch after an evening dodging raccoons and sparring with Big Taffy, his fat-cat nemesis from across the way.
It was, I figured, a good time to sit on the porch, sip a cup of coffee and glance through my morning Star Courier while I thought of something to say.
It didn’t take long.
The obituary page offered the news that two long-time friends had recently died.
Dave Costenson was a friend since high school, a happy-go-lucky, big-hearted guy who, back then, ignored the rule that said Kewanee guys weren’t supposed to get along with Galva guys and became a pal.
Ruby Lang was one of my mother’s bridge-playing buddies. She was a lot younger than mom, but she always enjoyed Ruby’s vivacious good looks, her upbeat outlook on life and her wonderful laugh; attributes I came to appreciate, too, as I got old enough to know better.
Both died of cancer.
Both died too soon.
“Why do people have to die? ” I said, startling Max, who had crawled into my lap and thought we were alone.
The answer is, I don’t exactly know. Neither does Max.
But I do know this:
I know that faith gives us an answer we can try to accept, even when it’s hard. And I believe that the life we lead now is only a preliminary for the life we’re getting ready for.
I think Coach Cos would go along with a sports analogy that goes kind of of like this:
Life on earth is just a practice session for the big show to come.
Work hard. Be ready.
And Ruby would probably agree that you play every hand you’re dealt with grace, joy and love.
But what about those who are left behind when a loved one dies? What about the spouses, children, other family members and friends who hang onto that person with an undying mixture of love, memories, tears and laughter?
I think it’s supposed to be that way.
I think souls are like kites that fly best when they stay connected--even by a delicate string--to the lives and loves they shared on earth. They dance in the breeze, beautiful and free and still a part of us forever.
I didn’t know how I’d end this story until a sudden shower broke the silence of my morning on the porch.
“Hmmm,” I thought. “Tears from heaven.”
Max looked up at me and I thought again.
“Tears of joy.”
Thursday, June 17, 2010
A Drive through Diversity
If you’ve paid any attention at all to my written ramblings about our on-the-road treks, you know that, to me, interstate highways are something to be avoided unless you are in one heck of a big hurry to get somewhere important or, perhaps, in the event of a national emergency, like the kind President Dwight D. Eisenhower had in mind when he pushed the National Interstate and Defense Highways Act of 1956 into existence. Eisenhower was impressed by the German Autobahn while he was serving as Supreme Commander of the Allied forces in Europe during World War II and felt that a national highway system of our own would improve private and commercial transportation, plus provide key ground transport routes for military supplies and troops in case of an emergency or foreign invasion.
And it’s true that we receive many important goods and services more quickly and easily because of interstate truck carriers, and it’s also true that if a foreign power was to invade, say, Iowa City, we could have troops there in a jiffy.
But while there are some advantages to a coast-to-coast, multi-lane highway system, there are things that I--and others--find less than attractive.
"Thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it is now possible to travel across the country from coast to coast without seeing anything. From the Interstate, America is all steel guardrails and plastic signs, and every place looks and feels and sounds and smells like every other place." - Charles Kuralt,
Our recent trip to visit son Colin and his family in northwestern Minnesota included a hurry-up drive via a trio of I-highways to get there, so I was pretty burnt out on four-lanes and truck stops when it came time to come home. A quick Google search revealed an alternate route that actually reduced the mileage, while adding little time to the drive. U.S. Route 52 starts at the Canadian border between Saskatchewan and North Dakota, then enters Minnesota as part of I-94 before meandering off on its own course in St. Paul. Some later research showed that the highway travels through ten different states, including North Dakota, Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. Like many other old US highways, 52 travels through a myriad of interesting towns and areas that were once important byways, but now find themselves a little lost in the high-speed shuffle. The route I had chosen would work its way through Rochester and head south, cross into Iowa near Decorah, then wander southeast, following the Mississippi to its crossing into Illinois at Savanah and its nearby intersection with route 78 towards home. I figured we’d get a look at a few small towns, plus enjoy the scenery provided by the rolling hills and neat-as-a-pin dairy farms of southern Minnesota and northern Iowa, not to mention a late-day glimpse of the mighty Mississippi in Dubuque and Bellevue.
We did. And more. And that’s where the diversity part comes in.
It was near a little Minnesota town called Harmony that we encountered something unexpected.
“I think we’re in Amish country,” said my co-pilot, who had noticed tidy farmhouses with working windmills and a lack of electric lines as her first clue. As it turns out, Harmony is the center of a large Old Order Amish area, started in the 70’s when a group relocated from Ohio. We’ve traveled through Amish locales before, but the Harmony group seems exceedingly successful, with mile after mile of small, prosperous-looking farms, with wagons working in the fields and buggies traveling along the well-paved shoulders of route 52.
“I guess they’re doing pretty well without offshore oil drilling,” she said.
And they are, or so it seems.
We crossed into Iowa and thought we were pretty well done with surprising sights when my ever-observant spouse turned to me as we drove through yet another small town.
“Was that guy mowing his lawn wearing a yarmulke?”
Postville, Iowa (population 1,478), seems an unlikely place to find a sizable Jewish population, let alone an ultra-Orthodox Hasidic Lubavitcher community. It is, after all, in pork country, and the Lubavitchers hail from Brooklyn. But when one of them bought a failed meat packing plant and turned it into a kosher processing center, things changed fast. By the late 1980s, sources said that "Postville had more rabbis per capita than any other city in the United States, perhaps the world."
Since then, Postville has become a virtual poster child for rapid-fire diversity, with a population that includes the original Iowa townspeople, members of the Lubavitcher group and a sizable group of Spanish-speaking immigrants who work in the plant. It’s been quite a struggle over the years, with a story that’s included cultural clashes, government INS raids, bankruptcy and recovery. It’s a story that’s been recorded at length in books, the media and court documents. But it’s there, in Postville, Iowa, where the sight of men wearing beards, black suits and payos while discussing the Torah is as common as bib-overalled farmers talking about the price of corn.
“Wow, things have been a little diverse today, haven’t they?” she smiled.
And that’s the whole point of this backroads thing of mine. Because there’s a entire country full of lives and stories and differences out there. We just need to take the time to look, listen and remember where they are.
"Life doesn't happen along the interstates. It's against the law."
-- William Least Heat Moon, author of Blue Highways
And it’s true that we receive many important goods and services more quickly and easily because of interstate truck carriers, and it’s also true that if a foreign power was to invade, say, Iowa City, we could have troops there in a jiffy.
But while there are some advantages to a coast-to-coast, multi-lane highway system, there are things that I--and others--find less than attractive.
"Thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it is now possible to travel across the country from coast to coast without seeing anything. From the Interstate, America is all steel guardrails and plastic signs, and every place looks and feels and sounds and smells like every other place." - Charles Kuralt,
Our recent trip to visit son Colin and his family in northwestern Minnesota included a hurry-up drive via a trio of I-highways to get there, so I was pretty burnt out on four-lanes and truck stops when it came time to come home. A quick Google search revealed an alternate route that actually reduced the mileage, while adding little time to the drive. U.S. Route 52 starts at the Canadian border between Saskatchewan and North Dakota, then enters Minnesota as part of I-94 before meandering off on its own course in St. Paul. Some later research showed that the highway travels through ten different states, including North Dakota, Minnesota, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. Like many other old US highways, 52 travels through a myriad of interesting towns and areas that were once important byways, but now find themselves a little lost in the high-speed shuffle. The route I had chosen would work its way through Rochester and head south, cross into Iowa near Decorah, then wander southeast, following the Mississippi to its crossing into Illinois at Savanah and its nearby intersection with route 78 towards home. I figured we’d get a look at a few small towns, plus enjoy the scenery provided by the rolling hills and neat-as-a-pin dairy farms of southern Minnesota and northern Iowa, not to mention a late-day glimpse of the mighty Mississippi in Dubuque and Bellevue.
We did. And more. And that’s where the diversity part comes in.
It was near a little Minnesota town called Harmony that we encountered something unexpected.
“I think we’re in Amish country,” said my co-pilot, who had noticed tidy farmhouses with working windmills and a lack of electric lines as her first clue. As it turns out, Harmony is the center of a large Old Order Amish area, started in the 70’s when a group relocated from Ohio. We’ve traveled through Amish locales before, but the Harmony group seems exceedingly successful, with mile after mile of small, prosperous-looking farms, with wagons working in the fields and buggies traveling along the well-paved shoulders of route 52.
“I guess they’re doing pretty well without offshore oil drilling,” she said.
And they are, or so it seems.
We crossed into Iowa and thought we were pretty well done with surprising sights when my ever-observant spouse turned to me as we drove through yet another small town.
“Was that guy mowing his lawn wearing a yarmulke?”
Postville, Iowa (population 1,478), seems an unlikely place to find a sizable Jewish population, let alone an ultra-Orthodox Hasidic Lubavitcher community. It is, after all, in pork country, and the Lubavitchers hail from Brooklyn. But when one of them bought a failed meat packing plant and turned it into a kosher processing center, things changed fast. By the late 1980s, sources said that "Postville had more rabbis per capita than any other city in the United States, perhaps the world."
Since then, Postville has become a virtual poster child for rapid-fire diversity, with a population that includes the original Iowa townspeople, members of the Lubavitcher group and a sizable group of Spanish-speaking immigrants who work in the plant. It’s been quite a struggle over the years, with a story that’s included cultural clashes, government INS raids, bankruptcy and recovery. It’s a story that’s been recorded at length in books, the media and court documents. But it’s there, in Postville, Iowa, where the sight of men wearing beards, black suits and payos while discussing the Torah is as common as bib-overalled farmers talking about the price of corn.
“Wow, things have been a little diverse today, haven’t they?” she smiled.
And that’s the whole point of this backroads thing of mine. Because there’s a entire country full of lives and stories and differences out there. We just need to take the time to look, listen and remember where they are.
"Life doesn't happen along the interstates. It's against the law."
-- William Least Heat Moon, author of Blue Highways
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Some Summertime Squirbs
Note to the uninitiated: A squirb is a cross between a squib and a blurb. Here are a few.
It’s summer. Or at least that’s what the weathermen say, as those guys have bypassed the hard-to-remember system of solstice-based dates with something more cognizant called meteorological seasons. With the latter method, each season starts at the beginning of a three-month period based on the prevailing temperatures for the time span. Summer, therefore, starts on June 1st, not on the 21st, and extends through August, with fall beginning, sensibly enough, on the first of September, and so on. I guess I haven’t been paying attention, because I thought this was a new-fangled way of looking at things until I did a little research and discovered that the Societas Meteorologica Palatina, an early international organization for meteorology, made this call several years ago. Like in 1780.
In any case, get out your shorts, flip-flops and Beach Boys albums.
It’s sum-sum-summertime!
++++++++++
I was hoping to spend this past weekend in pursuit of a personal holy grail.
Pie, that is.
We detoured through Aledo on Friday on the way to an errand in Galesburg. Some might say that Aledo is hardly on the way to the Burg, but the power of pie, in this case, at the annual Aledo Rhubarb Festival, made the sidetrip a no-brainer.
And there was, indeed, pie. So many choices from so many churches and organizations, that it was almost impossible to select my pie in the sky. The local Baptists finally won my business with a rhubarb-and-ice-cream combo that fit the bill perfectly. We had planned on yet another pastry-based event on Saturday, with the Elmwood Strawberry Festival beckoning. The weather alternated between muggy sunshine and sudden showers, and finally, after a hot, humid afternoon of gardening, we decided to skip it in favor of a ceiling fan, pizza and a rented video.
A good thing, too, as Elmwood nearly got swept away by a big-time tornado that wrecked parts of its downtown. Like Galva of a few years ago, Elmwood is establishing itself as the place not to be during periods of unsettled weather, with its second big storm in as many years. Sorry we missed the strawberry pie, but just as glad we ducked the wind.
++++++++++
I wrote a column called “The Lawn Mower Man” awhile back that mentioned the fact that I enjoy having the time to think, dream and even write (in my head, at least) when I cut the grass.
But not this year.
It seems like every time I need to mow, I need to be somewhere else, too. Or it’s getting dark. Or it’s starting to rain.
I bought a new mower this year, a pricey little self-propelled model that, unlike my worn-out wrecks of the past, actually does propel itself. It’s a good thing, too, because the speed-of-light movement required by my recent, unwelcome mowing style needs a machine with some real get up and go. My spouse/maintenance supervisor even mentioned it the other day.
She: Are you done with the lawn already? You were really moving out there.
Me: It was starting to rain...and I was supposed to be at a meeting ten minutes ago.
She: Maybe you should start wearing a number on your t-shirt. We could enter you in some races, even.
I’m glad I bought the mower.
++++++++++
We’re on our first big trip of the summer season this week, as we travel to northwest Minnesota to visit son Colin and his family. We could have spent time getting ready for the journey over the weekend, but got hung up on more pleasurable pursuits, like the aforementioned pie-fest and gardening, plus an alluring field full of u-pick strawberries. I was madly running errands on Monday in preparation for an extra-early start on Tuesday morning when I ran into a friend and mentioned we were heading out of town.
“Ah, that’s what retirement’s all about,” she said, referring to my wife’s recent departure from the teaching biz. “Just pick up and go whenever you feel like it.”
Uh yeah. Just as soon as I mow the lawn.
It’s summer. Or at least that’s what the weathermen say, as those guys have bypassed the hard-to-remember system of solstice-based dates with something more cognizant called meteorological seasons. With the latter method, each season starts at the beginning of a three-month period based on the prevailing temperatures for the time span. Summer, therefore, starts on June 1st, not on the 21st, and extends through August, with fall beginning, sensibly enough, on the first of September, and so on. I guess I haven’t been paying attention, because I thought this was a new-fangled way of looking at things until I did a little research and discovered that the Societas Meteorologica Palatina, an early international organization for meteorology, made this call several years ago. Like in 1780.
In any case, get out your shorts, flip-flops and Beach Boys albums.
It’s sum-sum-summertime!
++++++++++
I was hoping to spend this past weekend in pursuit of a personal holy grail.
Pie, that is.
We detoured through Aledo on Friday on the way to an errand in Galesburg. Some might say that Aledo is hardly on the way to the Burg, but the power of pie, in this case, at the annual Aledo Rhubarb Festival, made the sidetrip a no-brainer.
And there was, indeed, pie. So many choices from so many churches and organizations, that it was almost impossible to select my pie in the sky. The local Baptists finally won my business with a rhubarb-and-ice-cream combo that fit the bill perfectly. We had planned on yet another pastry-based event on Saturday, with the Elmwood Strawberry Festival beckoning. The weather alternated between muggy sunshine and sudden showers, and finally, after a hot, humid afternoon of gardening, we decided to skip it in favor of a ceiling fan, pizza and a rented video.
A good thing, too, as Elmwood nearly got swept away by a big-time tornado that wrecked parts of its downtown. Like Galva of a few years ago, Elmwood is establishing itself as the place not to be during periods of unsettled weather, with its second big storm in as many years. Sorry we missed the strawberry pie, but just as glad we ducked the wind.
++++++++++
I wrote a column called “The Lawn Mower Man” awhile back that mentioned the fact that I enjoy having the time to think, dream and even write (in my head, at least) when I cut the grass.
But not this year.
It seems like every time I need to mow, I need to be somewhere else, too. Or it’s getting dark. Or it’s starting to rain.
I bought a new mower this year, a pricey little self-propelled model that, unlike my worn-out wrecks of the past, actually does propel itself. It’s a good thing, too, because the speed-of-light movement required by my recent, unwelcome mowing style needs a machine with some real get up and go. My spouse/maintenance supervisor even mentioned it the other day.
She: Are you done with the lawn already? You were really moving out there.
Me: It was starting to rain...and I was supposed to be at a meeting ten minutes ago.
She: Maybe you should start wearing a number on your t-shirt. We could enter you in some races, even.
I’m glad I bought the mower.
++++++++++
We’re on our first big trip of the summer season this week, as we travel to northwest Minnesota to visit son Colin and his family. We could have spent time getting ready for the journey over the weekend, but got hung up on more pleasurable pursuits, like the aforementioned pie-fest and gardening, plus an alluring field full of u-pick strawberries. I was madly running errands on Monday in preparation for an extra-early start on Tuesday morning when I ran into a friend and mentioned we were heading out of town.
“Ah, that’s what retirement’s all about,” she said, referring to my wife’s recent departure from the teaching biz. “Just pick up and go whenever you feel like it.”
Uh yeah. Just as soon as I mow the lawn.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
A River through Time
There are a lot of things I’d like to see, places I’d like to go, and things I’d like to do someday. I think we all have those so-called “bucket lists” in the back of our minds, hoping that someday we’ll enjoy experiences like hiking rim to rim in the Grand Canyon or a whale sighting in Kenai Fjords National Park in Alaska or a Camino de Santiago de Compostela Pilgrimage in Spain. I know, at least, that these are the kind of things we dream about in my house.
But this past Memorial Day weekend, it was the Skunk River, as it passes through Oakland Mills, Iowa, that caught our fancy as the place to be.
The Skunk rises in two branches in central Iowa, joining in Keokuk County and flowing southeast to the Mississippi below Burlington. According to the 1865 Iowa State Gazetteer, Shippers' Guide and Business Directory, “The Skunk River, or Chicaque, as the Indians called it (meaning polecat) is a stream of pure water, averaging about 100 yards in width. This stream affords the most ample water-power, sufficient to drive all the necessary machinery that may be demanded by the surrounding country for all time to come. Suitable mill sites occur on it at frequent points, four of which have already been improved, and have extensive saw and grist mills in successful operation, while others are in course of erection.”
The area we visited--and have visited for years, now--is called Oakland Mills, a tiny, unincorporated village a few miles south of Mount Pleasant, where I went to college. Oakland Mills was the site of a hydroelectric plant built in the 1920's that provided electricity for the area for nearly 40 years before being abandoned. Now, the dam is used as a fishing pier on the Skunk, with water pouring over one section to create a fast-moving, muddy current that attracts campers, a few adventurous boaters and fishermen hoping to wrestle giant catfish from its murky depths. Located in a deep wooded valley, the area can be hot, humid, dusty (from the gravel road that runs along the river) and an excellent breeding ground for championship-size mosquitoes.
So, naturally, we love it.
Because, as is usually the case, it’s not the place, but the people that make for extra-special times. We used to meet college friends for Memorial Day “reunions” on the Skunk each year. Camping and cooking out in a large riverside lot, we’d share and compare stories of jobs and activities while introducing our growing families in a sort of rite of passage welcoming them to the clan. No, we did not require our children to walk on hot coals or undergo ritual scarification to become full-fledged members of the tribe, but certain customs and traditions were passed down, all the same.
“That’s where I learned to eat catsup on my eggs,” noted one of my sons. “And where to go if you’re going to the bathroom outside.”
Those probably aren’t the sort of cultural rites that will give anthropologists and sociologists something to think about and study at length in the future, I suppose, but they made for wonderful, funny things to remember and enjoy.
Over time, though, life kind of got in the way of our Memorial Day powwows. We didn’t completely lose touch with those friends of ours, but other activities, like school, sports, jobs, graduations and vacation trips muscled aside the yearly visit to the Skunk. We were happy to hook up with our friends for a visit just over a year ago, and happier, still, to make plans for a re-reunion, of sorts, near the banks of the mighty Skunk this past weekend. The old campsite is no longer available, nor is there as much mutual interest in sleeping on the ground. But one of us found out about a pair of cabins, recently built by the county nature park, high on a wooded bluff overlooking the river, that were just right. We met a new son-in-law and a newer grandson. We reintroduced ourselves to young-adult children who we hadn’t seen in years.
We talked and sang and ate and laughed.
And we learned.
We learned that some friends stay that way because that’s the way it’s meant to be. We compared some notes on the phenomenon of growing a little older, while enjoying how young we remain in our hearts and minds. We learned how little the essential values and beliefs that made us friends in the first place have changed over the years.
And we learned, I think, that we like being together and that we’ll do it again next year.
I hope so.
You see, I have some grandchildren I’d like these friends of ours to meet.
And I think it’s just about time they learned how to eat their eggs.
But this past Memorial Day weekend, it was the Skunk River, as it passes through Oakland Mills, Iowa, that caught our fancy as the place to be.
The Skunk rises in two branches in central Iowa, joining in Keokuk County and flowing southeast to the Mississippi below Burlington. According to the 1865 Iowa State Gazetteer, Shippers' Guide and Business Directory, “The Skunk River, or Chicaque, as the Indians called it (meaning polecat) is a stream of pure water, averaging about 100 yards in width. This stream affords the most ample water-power, sufficient to drive all the necessary machinery that may be demanded by the surrounding country for all time to come. Suitable mill sites occur on it at frequent points, four of which have already been improved, and have extensive saw and grist mills in successful operation, while others are in course of erection.”
The area we visited--and have visited for years, now--is called Oakland Mills, a tiny, unincorporated village a few miles south of Mount Pleasant, where I went to college. Oakland Mills was the site of a hydroelectric plant built in the 1920's that provided electricity for the area for nearly 40 years before being abandoned. Now, the dam is used as a fishing pier on the Skunk, with water pouring over one section to create a fast-moving, muddy current that attracts campers, a few adventurous boaters and fishermen hoping to wrestle giant catfish from its murky depths. Located in a deep wooded valley, the area can be hot, humid, dusty (from the gravel road that runs along the river) and an excellent breeding ground for championship-size mosquitoes.
So, naturally, we love it.
Because, as is usually the case, it’s not the place, but the people that make for extra-special times. We used to meet college friends for Memorial Day “reunions” on the Skunk each year. Camping and cooking out in a large riverside lot, we’d share and compare stories of jobs and activities while introducing our growing families in a sort of rite of passage welcoming them to the clan. No, we did not require our children to walk on hot coals or undergo ritual scarification to become full-fledged members of the tribe, but certain customs and traditions were passed down, all the same.
“That’s where I learned to eat catsup on my eggs,” noted one of my sons. “And where to go if you’re going to the bathroom outside.”
Those probably aren’t the sort of cultural rites that will give anthropologists and sociologists something to think about and study at length in the future, I suppose, but they made for wonderful, funny things to remember and enjoy.
Over time, though, life kind of got in the way of our Memorial Day powwows. We didn’t completely lose touch with those friends of ours, but other activities, like school, sports, jobs, graduations and vacation trips muscled aside the yearly visit to the Skunk. We were happy to hook up with our friends for a visit just over a year ago, and happier, still, to make plans for a re-reunion, of sorts, near the banks of the mighty Skunk this past weekend. The old campsite is no longer available, nor is there as much mutual interest in sleeping on the ground. But one of us found out about a pair of cabins, recently built by the county nature park, high on a wooded bluff overlooking the river, that were just right. We met a new son-in-law and a newer grandson. We reintroduced ourselves to young-adult children who we hadn’t seen in years.
We talked and sang and ate and laughed.
And we learned.
We learned that some friends stay that way because that’s the way it’s meant to be. We compared some notes on the phenomenon of growing a little older, while enjoying how young we remain in our hearts and minds. We learned how little the essential values and beliefs that made us friends in the first place have changed over the years.
And we learned, I think, that we like being together and that we’ll do it again next year.
I hope so.
You see, I have some grandchildren I’d like these friends of ours to meet.
And I think it’s just about time they learned how to eat their eggs.
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